


a year of birdsong

by crushing83



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Barduil Secret Santa, Crossover, Gift Fic, HP AU, Harry Potter References, Lots of mentions of Tolkien and HP characters, M/M, Post-War, Slow Build, partially betaed, project cars, speaking to thrushes, tricky fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushing83/pseuds/crushing83
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard accepts a teaching position at Hogwarts, so he and his family return to the life they left behind during the war. There, he reconnects with family, settles into a new routine, and makes new friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writing_oddities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_oddities/gifts).



> Happy holidays, writing_oddities! 
> 
> I hadn't intended to write so much, then the idea I had kind of got away from me, and then I had a struggle on my hands. I ran out of time, so it's only partially beta-ed, but I hope that doesn't ruin it for you! *fings crossed* 
> 
> And a big thank you to my beta! I really appreciate the time you took to point out all the trouble spots. I wish I'd done better, and I will try to keep your lessons in mind the next time I try to write something. 
> 
> <3

It was strange to be back at Hogwarts.

Bard remembered his time here as a student, and while the awe he'd felt then was returning in small doses, it was the knowledge that he would be teaching here that left him feeling most off-balance as he walked through the castle. He passed the alcove where he’d had his first kiss, with a classmate who’d thought his duelling skills deserved a reward; he crossed the hallway he’d accidentally filled with bubbles, when a recreational attempt at potion-making had gone awry. Those were some of the memories that flashed through his mind and made his heart swell in his chest. 

A thrush perched on the ledge of an open window and whistled a tune.

 _“Hello, friend,”_ Bard whistled at the bird. 

Fluffing its feathers, the bird tilted his head. It didn’t look startled; by the way it puffed up its chest, Bard would have guessed that it looked pleased. After flitting to another windowsill, it chirped a greeting in reply. 

He'd always been able to talk to that type of bird. As a boy, he'd lie back in the grass on his parents' property and whistle to them until his mouth hurt. His parents thought he'd been making up all the stories he shared with them; he hadn’t understood why more people didn’t admit to hearing the words the birds sang to them. 

It had begun to make more sense when he’d received his letter, shortly after his eleventh birthday: it was magic. Even so, it was rare magic.

Exactly how rare that magic was became clear after he arrived at the school and started asking questions about talking to animals. Classmates thought he was asking about Parselmouths, those who could speak with snakes, and they were unnerved by his questions. Once he’d done some digging through shelves in the library, those dusty with years of disuse, he learned there were a few types of wizarding folk who could communicate with different types of animals: he was a Throselmouth, he could speak with thrushes.

Instead of the hissing of Parseltongue, Throseltongue was akin to a whistling tune; it was birdsong from a man's lips. It came easily to him, and it came easily to his daughters, but he wasn't sure if his son had ever tried to speak the language. His late wife loved hearing him whistle, she'd often encouraged him to translate and share some of the birds' words with her.

_"You're going to be laaaaate!"_

Unsurprised by the bird’s comment, Bard smiled. Animals at the school always seemed to know about the comings and goings of the wizards and witches; conversations he'd had with the local thrushes had usually indicated that while they may not care about the people's activities, they were aware of most of what happened on the school's grounds.

 _"Thank you, friend,"_ he whistled in response.

He hurried, walking with more purpose towards the Headmistress' office, the bird’s song growing fainter as he came closer. The gargoyle that protected the office was already out of the way of the spiral staircase; as he passed it he realised it looked different but he wasn’t sure what had changed. Assuming it had to do with the rebuilding process, Bard put the curiosity aside and continued his ascent to the office. 

The door to the Headmistress’ office was open. After sucking in a deep breath and trying to push his nerves aside, Bard peeked inside. Minerva McGonagall, the current Head of Hogwarts and the aunt of his late wife, stood near some of the other professors and, when she spotted him, smiled as warmly as she had when they'd met outside of the Ministry of Magic almost a year ago. It wasn't the smile she'd given him when he was her student; it was the smile he'd come to know as the one she gave friends and family. Some of the nervousness in the pit of his stomach faded at the sight. 

"Hello, Headmistress," he replied, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Scowling, she took a few steps towards him. "It will be 'Minerva' when we are here like this. Honestly young man, you know better."

Bard smiled, nodded, and stepped into the room. She waved him closer, and the other women around her welcomed him to the school. 

First to greet him was Professor Sprout; she shook his hand exuberantly, nearly unseating her hat in the process, and insisted that he call her Pomona. Madam Poppy Pomfrey spoke to him next; she surprised him by asking if he’d had any more flying accidents since his departure from the school. Laughing sheepishly---he remembered his awful luck on the Quidditch pitch---Bard assured her that he kept his feet on the ground whenever possible. She introduced him to the young woman at her side, a former student named Hannah Abbott who would be working at the school as part of her practical study in the field of healing. Though she seemed young, Bard thought there was maturity in her expression and a keen sparkle in her eyes; he hoped she would do well and told her as much when he had a chance to talk. 

Once small talk with the ladies was concluded, Minerva guided Bard across the room and introduced him to Frodo Baggins. Bard thought him entirely too young to be a teacher; he felt a little relieved to know the young man was there to work on his thesis (on certain objects of power through history) under the supervision of the school’s History of Magic instructor, Professor Binns. 

A few minutes later Bard was relieved to see another familiar face enter the room; Samwise Gamgee had been the one to open the school’s gates to Bard and his children. Sam was there to help Hagrid with his duties on the castle grounds and eventually would take over as full-time groundskeeper and Professor of Care of Magical Creatures. Bard was sure he’d do a great job in the post; from what Bard had seen, Sam was kind, bright and hard-working, and seemed to be genuinely concerned about the school. 

Another man came into the room then, waddling slightly in his slippers, and Bard saw Minerva's eyes almost roll before she greeted him.

"Horace!" she exclaimed. "You've arrived at last! Why didn't you owl me?"

"I didn't want to be a bother, Minerva, you know me," he said, sniffing a little and making his moustache wriggle in the process. 

Bard successfully smothered a little laugh. By the way Minerva's nostrils flared he was willing to wager she knew Horace well---and was often bothered by him.

"Well, you’re here. Why don't you come in and sit with Mister Bowdyn?" she suggested, in a tone that made it clear that it was more an order than a suggestion. "He is to be the teacher for the first-through-third years' Potions classes, after all."

At that suggestion Horace’s focused shifted with another sniff and his eyes narrowed when he turned towards Bard. “Ah. Yes,” he said, “the new Potions Master.” 

Bard shrugged. "I haven't earned that distinction," he said without a trace of shame. 

”That’s unfortunate,” Horace commented. “Is there a reason for not continuing with your studies?”

"There was no chance to apprentice with the Guild," he said. "By the time I qualified, there were rumblings about the war and I had a young family to protect. I chose pragmatism over formal education."

That was the gist of it and he didn't think he needed to explain it any more than that; everyone in the Wizarding World had been touched by the war and they didn’t need to hear his story to understand his position. When it became too dangerous to be a muggleborn wizard in their part of the magical world, any hope he'd had to build upon his craft with more formal education died in the panic of getting his children to safety.

He used to wonder what it would have been like to study at the international institution, as anyone else did when they wanted to become a registered Potions Master, but he never regretted his decision to stick by his family and take a job in an apothecary shop. He continued his practical education, brewed under a shop’s shingle whenever possible, and found he learned more than enough to stay up to date in the field. That knowledge and experience, combined with his good references, had given him the confidence to accept the teaching position. He may have been nervous, but he knew he could do the work. 

"Yes," Horace said quietly, "I can see how that would get in the way. So you’ll be the new Potions instructor, then. Good, good..."

Before Bard could say anything more than a brief “yes sir” in response, Minerva called out to him. He turned and saw her waving to him, from the middle of a small group of people he did not know. Even though Horace’s focus had turned to the shortbreads in a tin on Minerva’s desk, Bard still excused himself politely from Horace’s presence. He moved past Horace and ended up at Minerva’s side to meet to the other members of staff, more names and faces he doubted he’d be able to commit to memory the first time around. 

Indeed she had warned him that the staff would be quite large this year, but he had failed to realise just how large the group would be and whether they all would fit into the office. Minerva’s plan was to decrease the responsibilities of those who want to retire, while redistributing the load on everyone's shoulders, granting the new staff opportunities to learn from those they would eventually replace. In their correspondence over the last year, Minerva had mentioned that so far, her plan was working and she hoped the next cohort, including Bard, would continue that trend.

"Sit, sit!" Minerva said to some of the professors, produced her wand from the folds of her robes and added, "I'll transfigure some more chairs."

Choosing a seat between Sam and Poppy, Bard settled back to watch and wait.

A tall man then entered the office, looking mildly uncomfortable; his eyebrows were drawn together and his lips were almost curled in a grimace, yet that dark expression did nothing to detract from his beauty. Aware he was staring, Bard turned his eyes away, only to see Minerva step up to greet the newcomer. Curiosity peaked, Bard glanced back towards the doorway. There was no denying, this man was exceedingly handsome, long blond hair flowed straight down his back, the posture impeccable and almost haughty. The smile he gave to Minerva cracked that facade and it spoke of long familiarity.. 

"Thranduil!" Minerva exclaimed. "I thought you wouldn't arrive until just before the start of term."

He shrugged before brushing at his decadent, immaculate robes as if there was dust upon them. "Tauriel has been cooperative lately. I thought I should take advantage of the peace," he explained. "Legolas will arrive on the train, if he remembers what day it departs from King's Cross."

Minerva smiled warmly. "That girl is good for you," she said. "Come in, sit. I know you know everyone from last year, but we've some new arrivals. Hannah Abbott, she is Poppy's charge." She gestured to the young woman, before she waved her hand in Bard’s direction. "And this is Bard Bowdyn. He'll be teaching some of the Potions classes this year and I hope he will take over as Head of Gryffindor House once he finds his footing."

As he made his way further into the room, Thranduil turned his grey eyes towards Bard. He nodded, his near-scowl softening into an expression that almost resembled a smile. "Thranduil Oropherion," he said. "Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"Hello," Bard replied. He cleared his throat, and added, "Nice to meet you."

Minerva clapped her hands together. "Why don't you sit, Thranduil, and we can get started?"

Thranduil nodded and sat on the other side of the room, then Minerva called for order. It took a couple minutes, but eventually the group quieted down enough for the meeting to officially start.

&&&

By the end of the three-hour long meeting, Bard was amazed his head wasn't spinning off his shoulders with all the information whirling though it. There was so much to consider from an administrative standpoint, and even though he was confident in his potion-making abilities, he was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the other side of his new job.

There had been the usual mentions of the ban of certain joke products---especially Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, as they were notorious for causing the most trouble---and of the required chaperoning of the trips to Hogsmeade. Those things hadn't surprised Bard because he’d expected them, but it was the discussion of the staff’s holiday responsibilities that had caught his attention and made him wonder. 

A full schedule of events was planned. Minerva told the group of professors she wanted the school to be a safe and _fun_ \---much to Bard's amusement, as she always seemed so serious as a teacher---place for the students whenever possible, and she'd added to the list of holidays they would be celebrating with planned festivities to assist with that goal.

When he'd heard even some of the more seasoned staff groan, Bard knew there would be a lot to do.

In the fall, there would be a Hallowe'en feast and a costume party. The winter holidays would be preceded by a secret gift exchange for any and all students who want to participate. The usual holiday feast would be prepared for anyone staying at the castle for the break. In February, there would be a sweets sale and card exchange, through which any profits would go to one of the charity groups that had cropped up in the post-war years. The Easter season would be celebrated with an egg hunt, where students should be divided into mixed-house teams. There would also be a memorial event for those lost in the war; members of the Wizarding community outside of Hogwarts would be invited to that. After the memorial, exams would follow, but a celebratory feast was planned after that period to give the students (and the professors) a chance to unwind.

The staff was required to participate fully wherever possible, of course, but there were also some events planned for them that would occur away from the students’ curious eyes. Many of the older, lesser-celebrated days of magical importance would once again be celebrated, Minerva told the group. She wanted to strengthen the protective charms on the castle and had, with their new librarian's help, discovered that the best times to perform those spells were on the all-but-forgotten days of magical importance. There would be celebration, yes, but there would also be a performing of rituals that would allow the staff to contribute their strengths and energies to the foundations of the castle.

Never having studied old magic, Bard was not sure would would be involved in those rites. He wondered if he could contribute in a constructive way, since his skills were strongest in potions and not charms or defensive magic. 

Bard had been considering that as the meeting broke up for the day. He caught sight of Thranduil talking with Horace on their way to the door, but he paid them little mind as he said good-bye to Sam, Pomona, and a few of the others who were leaving at the end of the gathering. When everyone else had gone, he thought about following them, but he wanted to talk with Minerva about the rituals. 

Minerva turned to him as he rose to a standing position. “What is it?” she asked. 

“Are you sure I should participate in the… old magic?” 

Without hesitation, she nodded. “Yes, you will be good for this school. And, beyond that, the school will be good for you,” she insisted. Her face softened into a small smile as she added: “You need to be with your own kind---and with family, too.” 

Bard shrugged, trying to stamp down on the feelings of defensiveness he usually felt when his family’s relocation was discussed. “We were with wizarding folk in Ott---”

"It wasn't home, though, now, was it?"

"No," he admitted, "but we made it work."

Minerva nodded. "I know," she said softly. "You did what you had to do. What Mattie wanted you to do, too."

Bard held back a wince. He hoped he could go a little while longer before they talked about his late wife in any detail. It wasn't that he couldn't think of Mattie without feeling the pain of grief---because he could, and did, often---but talking about her wishes and the beginning of the war when Voldemort's evil descended on Wizarding Britain for a second time made him remember a time he did not like to revisit. 

"I still don't want to wear robes," he said, both hoping for a change of subject and caring little for how petulant he may have sounded. 

On a little chuckle, Minerva replied: "They are not required for professors, only suggested."

His shoulders relaxed and he smiled. "Good."

“You always cared little for the most frivolous of traditions,” she commented. “You will be good for this place.” 

"I hope so."

Minerva nodded. She turned from him for a moment to restore her office to its previous state. With a wave of her wand, the extra chairs turned back into what they'd been before being transfigured. She tucked her wand into her robes and folded her hands together. 

"I know you have questions," she said, "but, for now, return to your children. Bring them to the Great Hall for supper. Settle in and rest. Tomorrow, if you still have those same questions, come back to my office." She studied him with a critical eye. "All right?"

Sensing the dismissal, Bard nodded. He'd forgotten the meeting must have been difficult for her, too, with so many voices directed at her; he felt a little guilt for taking up more of her time than necessary.

"Aye," he agreed, "all right."

She smiled, squeezed his hand, and waved him towards the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next couple days, Bard felt as if the strangeness of his situation was giving way to acceptance---and even comfort. Some of that was because his children seemed to be enjoying their time becoming familiar with the castle and its quirks, but some of that was also because he was making plans for the upcoming term and becoming excited to start teaching. The concern he felt over the old magic rituals slipped to the back of his mind as that excitement took hold of his thoughts. 

The day after the staff meeting, Bard divided his time between his children and planning for his teaching duties. He’d moved his personal equipment into his office---tools for ingredient preparation, notebooks full of adjusted formulas and observations, and his record player, though the last item wasn’t meant to stay there through the year---and set to work putting together an outline of lessons for his first, second, and third year classes. He studied the stores in the supply cupboard; he made a list of everything he would need, from phials to cleaning supplies to individual ingredients. 

And then, on the second day after the staff meeting, he tied back his shoulder-length hair, turned on some music, and got to work brewing some of the potions he knew were expected to be in the students’ curriculum. 

It wasn’t strictly for his benefit. He could brew the simpler formulas in his sleep, he wagered; he’d brewed them often enough for customers at the apothecary shop where he’d worked. He wanted to refresh his memory and ensure he knew the basic lessons inside-out so he could show them how to have fun. 

Potions was often regarded as one of the more difficult subjects for students to learn. Bard knew that attitude was well-founded, but the more he’d studied (and experimented), he’d found a world of possibilities open to him. So many potions were possible---cures, enhancements, protections, and so on---and every variation to a standard recipe unlocked more possibilities. He wanted to share that with the students. If he could do that successfully, he hoped they, too, would see that Potions isn’t a subject to be feared but one to be enjoyed. 

His plan for his classes was to start with the handling and processing of ingredients and move onto how those variations could influence a recipe. He knew, with the first years, it would be more about the traditional method, but he hoped he could get them thinking so if he had them again in their second year he could really get them experimenting. 

After finishing his Forgetfulness Potion, he cleaned up his work station, turned off the music, and set out to find his children. The boil cure could wait until the following day. 

It didn’t take long to find them. It was nearly time for lunch; he met them on the staircase that would take them to the Great Hall. 

He smiled as Tilda, his youngest (at eleven years old), rushed him; he stooped and caught her for a hug. 

“We saw Sam!” she exclaimed after he buried a kiss in her wild brown hair, like his own in texture but like her mother’s in colour. “He took us to see the thestrals---there’s a new baby!” 

He never liked the thestrals because seeing them meant one had seen death; Tilda’s excitement reminded him joy could come after sorrow. After a kiss to her temple, he set her back on the stone floor. 

“How’s the wee one doing?” Bard asked. 

“She ate a cube of meat right outta my hand!” 

“So, good then?” he murmured. He looked at his older children, Sigrid and Bain. They, too, were smiling. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Sigrid assured him. “Don’t worry so much.” 

Used to hearing that from her, Bard snorted. She chuckled. Once he wrangled hugs out of Bain and Sigrid, he followed them down the stairs and towards the room where everyone congregated for their meals. They talked about the thestrals and the other creatures they encountered before Sigrid asked him about the preparatory work he’d been doing. He assured her it was going fine. Once she finished staring at him with one eyebrow raised in an unspoken question, he thanked her for watching out for Tilda (because, at fifteen, Bain would have been insulted if he thought his father believed he still needed minding). When they reached the main floor he ushered them into the Great Hall. His children stared around the room, still amazed by the sight of the sky in the ceiling, and Bard took a minute to appreciate the sight, too, before he guided them down the main aisle. 

It seemed empty, without the crowds of students, but there were still some people at various tables. Teachers were at the staff table at the far end of the room. A few more were sitting at the tables directly below that one, flanked by young children. Some of the children in the room seemed younger than eleven and Bard realised they were the reason why a daycare service had been started; single parents and guardians could not leave their children through the school year, so a service to assist those professors had been put into place. 

As soon as they sat down at an empty table, food appeared on platters in front of them. Tilda dove for the chips, but Bard made sure to put some vegetables on her plate, too. Once his children had enough food, he grabbed a sandwich and took a bite; he hummed happily, quietly, and savoured the taste of the roast beef and horseradish. 

A few birds---owls, mostly---swept into the room and made a beeline for the staff table. Another sort of bird of prey, one Bard could not identify, flew into the room and went to one of the other tables. Bard watched its path (while Tilda cooed over the sight of such a majestic looking bird) and saw it land next to Thranduil, who was seated at one of Ravenclaw’s tables. The young girl next to him, who appeared to be Tilda’s age, reached out and offered it a piece of meat from a sandwich on a nearby platter. Thranduil muttered quietly---Bard could recognise the parental annoyance on his face and assumed he was telling her not to feed the bird---as he took the message from its proffered claw. Before he unrolled it, though, Thranduil brushed his fingers over the bird’s feathered head. 

Turning his attention back to his family, Bard saw that Tilda had only eaten a couple of carrots. Before he could say anything, though, Sigrid was telling her to eat some of the small tomatoes. Tilda scowled at her; Sigrid seemed unaffected by Tilda’s irritation. Meanwhile, Bain was halfway through what must have been his third half of sandwich, judging by the crusts on his plate. 

When the rolled newspaper dropped down in front of him, Bard startled---and then chuckled at himself for reacting like that, even though he hadn’t expected any post. His parents knew he returned, but there was emotional distance between them; he’d cut off contact with them during the war, to keep them safe, and they’d been hurt by that. He didn’t regret his actions because keeping them from the magical world made them less of a target. Unfortunately, they saw his actions differently and he knew it would take a while before their relationship was repaired enough for regular owl mail. 

Unrolling the newspaper revealed it to be the automobile sales flyer he’d ordered. He grinned. 

Tilda’s fingers tapped at the paper. She grinned when Bard looked at her. “Are you going to fix another car?” she asked eagerly. 

Bain’s head snapped around and he looked down at the paper in Bard’s hand. “Really?” he asked. “Can I help again?” 

With a smile, Bard replied, “Sure, if you want.” 

“I want to help, too, Da,” Tilda insisted. 

“All right,” he agreed. “How about we read through this later, together, and we’ll all decide on a car to fix up.” 

Tilda grinned and nodded. Bain nodded. 

“Does Aunt Minerva know?” Sigrid quietly inquired. 

Bard chuckled. “Yes, she knows. She said I could set up shop in one of the empty carriage houses. I wouldn’t have packed up the garage if she’d said no.”

A bit of amusement lit up Sigrid’s face. She leaned forward and said: “Is it wrong to admit I thought she’d never have allowed it?”

“Nah,” Bard replied, trying not to laugh too much. He’d thought the same thing until he asked Minerva about a space for his hobby of restoring old vehicles. “She said as long as I didn’t get anyone hurt or cause an explosion, the school could endure a muggle activity or two.” 

Sigrid laughed. “That sounds like her,” she murmured. 

“She also admitted that if I fixed up a convertible, she might be convinced to go for a drive,” Bard added quietly, making Sigrid laugh a bit more. “That’ll be a sight, huh?”

“I don’t know if the world is ready for that, Da,” she said, laughter still in her voice. 

“I don’t know, either,” he agreed as he grinned back at her.

&&&&&

He kept up a balance between preparation for classes and time with his children throughout the week. It was strange, having some time to himself, but he liked it. He’d rarely been alone when they lived in Ottawa, since the apothecary shop was usually bustling with activity and his children had been too young to be on their own. The occasional guest to the Potions classroom broke up his solitude and his work, providing him with a few distractions without keeping him from accomplishing all he set out to do.

Poppy and Hannah were his first visitors. They wanted to check on him, but they also wanted to ask if he could replenish some of their supplies for the upcoming year. Scanning the list of potions that Poppy gave him revealed nothing overly complicated; most of the requests were for simple brews, like the Pepperup Potion, and the most difficult was a sleeping draught that he’d made many times when working for apothecaries. When he told them that he could get started on some of those that same day, Hannah offered to help but he declined the offer. Bard knew he could work better if left to his own devices. After assuring them he didn’t mind working alone, they thanked him; after they left, he started to work on the sleeping potion.

His second visitor was Horace and he came to the classroom while Bard was working. Bard welcomed him in as he grabbed a sopophorous bean from his spread of ingredients; he saw Horace’s eyes sweep over the organised mess mess on the tabletop and caught the twitch of his moustache, but he couldn't decide if the gesture was one of amusement or disapproval. 

His silver knife was a solid weight in his hand, and the handle curved slightly to fit in the grip of his fingers. Bard tested its balance, giving it a little bounce, before he sandwiched the sopophorous bean between the flat side of the blade and the surface of the table. Before he could squash it, he heard a sharp intake of breath coming from Horace.

“You’re supposed to chop that bean, you know,” Horace said. 

Bard smiled. “I know, but you get more juice if you squash it first,” he explained. 

After doing just that, squeezing the bean between the knife and the table, Bard sliced the end off and pulled the threads from its side. He brought it over his cauldron and the juice dripped freely from it. That technique, something he'd learned from his time in one of the apothecary shops overseas, usually provided a few extra drops of juice. Chopping the bean and straining the juice from the pieces was a messy process and often produced less juice than the recipe required; the description in the Standard Book of Spells said the juice of one sopophorous bean was required, but it failed to consider that the usual method of obtaining that juice was not always successful.

“That… well, that is… yes, that works.” 

Since that was probably as close to a compliment from Horace as he would ever get, he grinned and nodded. 

“What is that noise?” 

When Horace's attention turned to the record player, his eyebrows drawing together, Bard resisted the urge to chuckle. He'd worked with other people who preferred silence while they brewed and was used to the looks and commentary he received for his preference to have music playing. 

“Just some music,” Bard said. “Keeps me focused.” 

“Reminds me of London in the seventies,” Horace muttered. 

“I can turn it off if you’d like to stay,” Bard offered. 

Horace waved his hands as he turned away from the table. “No, no, you seem to have everything well in hand,” he said. He walked to the door, but stopped and turned before he left the laboratory. “I will place the order for the students’ supplies tonight. If there is anything you’d like me to add, please stop by my office or send me an owl.” 

Bard nodded. “I will. Thank you, sir.” 

Horace nodded, too, and left him alone. 

He finished brewing in solitude, the room quiet except for the music of The Who, and it wasn’t until after he’d stirred it the required amount of times in the clockwise direction and added the mint leaves to soak that he noticed he had another visitor. A little thrush sat on the back of one of the room’s chairs. Bard smiled and greeted it; in turn, it replied with a greeting. 

_“Noisy work,”_ it sang, tilting its head towards the music. 

Bard snorted. Checking on his potion it still had a minute or so to simmer before it was time to remove the steeping mint leaves; he decided to grant the bird a bit of a reprieve. He went to the box of records he’d brought down to the dungeons and selected something with a softer sound. 

After putting on one of Cat Stevens’ albums and turning down the volume, he glanced at the bird. 

_“How’d you get down here, little one?”_ he asked. 

_“Flew.”_

Bard laughed. 

_“Your fledgling asked me to remind you that the appointment with the hat is in two hours.”_

Bard smiled. _“Thank you,”_ he whistled back. 

The bird twittered happily and flew around the room. It perched on Bard’s shoulder, acknowledged the wizard’s warning not to get too close to the cauldron or the flame underneath it, and settled in to watch as Bard began straining the leaves from it. 

_“What does it do?”_ the bird asked. 

_“This helps someone sleep if they need to be asleep to heal,”_ Bard explained. _“Or if they can’t sleep on their own.”_

_“Strange.”_

Bard snorted. _“I can imagine it would sound that way to you,”_ he whistled. 

“So it’s you causing the racket.” 

When Bard looked at the door he saw Thranduil standing in the opening. His brow was slightly furrowed and his lips were nearly curved in a frown, but he was still as striking as he had been the first time Bard saw him. 

Bard smiled. “Hello, Professor Oropherion. Are you talking about my music or my whistling?” 

“The music,” Thranduil replied. “I couldn’t hear your whistling over the wailing.” 

Bard grinned. “Come in and pull up a stool,” he offered. “I’ll even turn off the record if you want.” 

He disposed of the mint leaves and returned to the cauldron to stir the potion. Like with the Draught of Living Death, the brewing process went better when one clockwise stir was added after every few anti-clockwise stirs; Bard knew it had something to do with the ingredients and the way they reacted when agitated, because both potions were similar, though the one he was brewing now was less intense. 

By the time he finished stirring the mixture, Thranduil was perched on a stool. Since it looked like he was intending to stay for at least a few minutes, Bard waved his wand at his record player and lowered the volume.

“Is that your pet?” Thranduil asked. 

Bard glanced from Thranduil to the bird on his shoulder and shook his head. “No, this is just a visitor.” 

“How did it get here?”

Bard smiled. “It flew.” 

“Hmm.” 

_“He’s awfully serious, isn’t he?”_

Bard snorted at the thrush’s observation. He pulled out the valerian root and got to work shredding it with a grater over a bowl; when he started mashing it with a pestle, he heard Thranduil’s sharp inhalation. 

“What?” Bard asked. 

“You… you are ruining that valerian root,” Thranduil insisted. “The sleeping draught won’t work if the consistency is too thin.” 

“I know what I’m doing,” Bard said, making sure his voice was calm. He wasn’t thrilled to be on the receiving end of more criticism, but he knew his methods were a little different those found in the standard textbook. He added the valerian root mash and stirred. The potion changed colours almost instantly, turning a pale blue, and let off the expected cloud of slow-to-dissolve vapour. When he saw Thranduil’s surprised expression, he smiled and explained, “I added more of the wormswood splinters." 

“That was lucky.”

“I know my way around a cauldron,” Bard interrupted, smiling a little. “Relax.” 

“But the book---”

“DA! Da! Da!” 

Bard looked at the door as Tilda ran into the room. Her hair had loosened from its braid and little curls were floating in the air around her flushed face. She was grinning. When she stopped running she was still moving, bouncing on her little feet. 

“Tilda, did you meet Professor Oropherion?” Bard asked, trying to introduce his daughter to one of her professors. “He’ll be your---”

“It’s nice to meet you an’ I like your hair!” Tilda exclaimed. “But, Da! Listen!” 

Bard tried to smother a laugh, but he failed. “I’m trying to, baby, but you need to use your words.” 

“It’s here!” she said, waving her hands around. 

“What?” he asked. “Sigrid sent a message, I know I’m not late for the---”

“Not the sorting,” Tilda interrupted, voice tight with excitement. “The car!” 

Bard grinned. 

_“She’s excited,”_ the bird observed. 

_“I know. So am I,”_ Bard replied. Seeing Thranduil’s puzzled expression, he tried to explain, “I bought a car a couple days ago. I didn’t think I’d be able to get it delivered up here, but we worked it out.” 

With a little huff, Tilda cried, “Da! You need to sign for it! Bain tried but the man wouldn’t let him!” 

“All right, Tilda. Give me a minute to finish here and I’ll be right up. Tell the delivery wizard I just need to bottle what I’m working on.” 

She nodded and scampered out of the room. Bard laughed a bit and turned his attention back to the potion. He checked its consistency with a ladle, found it to be correct, and stole a peek at Thranduil’s face. Judging by the way Thranduil was looking at the potion with a dark expression on his face, Bard guessed that he still wasn't sure that adjusting the standard recipe was a good idea. 

Knowing he didn't have much time, with the car waiting for him outside, Bard set down his ladle. Thranduil silently passed him the graduated bottle that had been sitting at the end of the work surface. Bard smiled at Thranduil in thanks before slipping the funnel into the bottle's opening and transferring the potion into the container. When the bottle was full, he set the funnel in the cauldron with the ladle and took his equipment over to the large sink behind the table. 

“Your delivery is waiting.” 

“I know,” Bard said, his back to Thranduil. "But, I can't leave these cauldrons dirty. The dregs'll wreck the cauldron bottom." 

He worked as quickly as he could, soaping and rinsing the cauldron and other bits of equipment. It took a little while longer than he’d hoped, but eventually it was finished. Once everything was drying in the sink, he wiped his hands on a towel. 

“Did you want to see it?” he asked. 

“It?”

Bard smiled. “The car.” 

Despite a roll of his eyes Thranduil nodded and moments later he was following Bard out of the classroom. The bird that had been perched on Bard’s shoulder flew ahead of them, tweeting brightly as it made its way to the front doors. 

Thranduil didn’t say much, but Bard didn’t mind the quiet as it felt comfortable. Judging from Thranduil’s attempt at a conversation, Bard guessed Thranduil didn’t approve of his potions-making methods, but he hoped Thranduil didn’t consider him to be a complete idiot. He wanted to get to know Thranduil better---especially since they were going to be at Hogwarts for the year---and he suspected Thranduil didn’t easily tolerate stupidity.

When they stepped outside, Bard took in the sight of his new car and grinned. 

“What on earth are you going to do with that heap of junk?” Thranduil asked, making Bard laugh.

“It’s not a heap of junk, it’s a nineteen-sixty-four MGB Roadster. And, for your information, I’m going to fix it up,” Bard told him. He left Thranduil’s side to approach the man who delivered the vehicle. “Thanks, mate, for bringing it to the castle,” Bard said, “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” 

“No problem, sir,” the deliveryman in grey uniform robes said. He gave Bard a little smile. “I haven’t been up to the castle since the rebuilding. Nice to see it in its restored glory.” 

“It is, isn’t it?” Bard agreed politely. As he grabbed the ballpoint pen he usually kept in his pocket with one hand, he took the scroll from the man with the other. Ignoring the strange look he was receiving for his choice of writing implement, he signed on the dotted line and returned the scroll. “And this beauty will be great to see in its restored glory, too.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it, sir,” the deliveryman said with a tip of his head. “Have a good afternoon and thanks for using Carrywright Shipping!” 

He turned and set off down the lane that would take him to the front gates and a safe place for apparition to the front gates. Bard took a minute to watch him retreat but then he shifted his attention to the old car, sitting on and strapped to a flatbed. He smiled and ran his hands over its hood and down its sides. Despite it being rusted and rundown, Bard could easily imagine what it would look like when he'd finished restoring it; he knew it would be beautiful and the picture in his mind left him feeling eager to get started.

“You are going to be gorgeous when you’re finished,” he murmured and turned to his kids, only Bain and Tilda, since Sigrid was probably reading (or thinking about her impending sorting). “What do you think?”

“You’re still gonna paint it blue, right?” Tilda asked. 

Bard grinned and nodded. She grinned back at him. “Then it’s perfect,” she declared. 

“What do you intend to do with it?” Thranduil asked quietly. 

“We’ll fix it up,” Bard told him. “Get it running and gleaming again. And then, I’ll probably sell it.” 

Thranduil frowned. “You do this… for money?”

Bard chuckled. “Nah, more for fun than anything else.” He looked at Bain. “Can you go check the carriage house and make sure there’s room? I’ll bring it over and we can store it away.” 

“We can’t work on it?” Bain asked. 

“Not today. You’ve got your sorting in a little bit,” Bard said. “But, maybe, after supper, we’ll sneak out and take stock of everything that needs to be done.” 

“All right.” 

Squeezing his Bain’s shoulder, he murmured, “Go on, I’ll be right behind you.” 

Bain nodded and ran off in the direction of the carriage houses, the small structures that lay between the greenhouses and the forest. With a departing grin to Thranduil and Bard, Tilda hurried after him. 

“This looks hopeless,” Thranduil commented, his attention back on the car. 

“You’re the cheery type, aren’t you?” Bard asked. After Thranduil sniffed in reply, Bard chuckled and spoke again. “I know it looks bad, but when it’s finished, it’ll be great.”

“All right. Well… good luck. Looks like you’ll need it.” 

“You can’t rain on my parade,” Bard said, still smiling. “But, thanks, all the same.” 

Bard pulled his wand---eastern hemlock with a core of dragon heartstring---from its sheath on his arm. Refusing to use magic on his recent acquisition, because he liked knowing the car was not touched directly by magic, he cast a wordless floating charm on the wooden base underneath it. 

“See you later,” he said, before walking down the same path his children had taken. “Thanks for the company.” 

Thranduil’s brows lifted again---minutely, but they still lifted---and then he nodded. He headed back to the castle’s doors; Bard smiled and set off with his new project.

&&&

“Are you upset?” Sigrid asked.

Surprised by the question, Bard turned from watching Minerva setting the Sorting Hat on its stool to look at Sigrid, who was looking at him with wide, concerned eyes. He tilted his head and blinked; he didn't understand what Sigrid meant. Some people cared about where the Sorting Hat placed their children, but Bard wasn't the type to hold one house over another. Even with his reservations pertaining to Slytherin House, built by the war and his personal experiences, he knew whichever house became home to his children would be lucky to have them and that was all that mattered. He thought Sigrid would have understood that. 

“Well, Bain’s in Gryffindor,” Sigrid explained, motioning a little towards Bain, who had also been granted permission to be sorted early, before the first year students. “It’s yours and Mum’s house. And I---”

He cut her off by wrapping her up in a hug. “All I am is proud of you,” he assured her. “Ravenclaw just got that much better. You’re going to do great there. Got it?” 

“I… all right.” 

Bard kissed her temple and pulled back to look at her. “Your mother would be thrilled, too,” he murmured. “To be honest, I’m a little relieved. You Ravenclaws always seem to be so sensible. Not that you’re particularly inclined towards trouble, but I know your dorm-mates probably won’t be dragging you into trouble at all hours of the night.” 

“Like yours were with you?” Minerva said from behind them. 

Looking at her, he saw her smirk; he ducked his head to hide the smile that came with memories of the mischief he’d gotten into with his friends during his years at the castle. “Yes, well,” he mumbled, “I may have been doing some of the dragging too.” 

Sigrid laughed softly. Bain smiled. 

Minerva rolled her eyes and looked to Bain. “If you think you’ll be causing me any extra trouble this term---”

“I wouldn’t!” Bain insisted. He flushed. “Well, not on purpose, anyway.” 

Bard chuckled. He reached out and squeezed Bain’s shoulder. “You’ll do great in Gryffindor, Bain,” he assured him. “You all right with being there?”

Bain nodded. “Should be fun,” he replied. “But, you have to remember not to treat me different if you’re ever in charge of the house when I’m still in it.”

“I know. I promise.” 

“I wonder what house Tilda will be sorted into,” Sigrid mused. 

Tilda, who had been flipping through a book about animal familiars once she realised the sorting process was a simple procedure that didn’t involve much action on her part, looked up from her spot in a big armchair. “I haven’t decided yet,” she declared to her family. 

“Decided?” Sigrid asked.

Tilda nodded. “One of the birds said students could choose.” 

“Yeah, I know, but it still advises you on where it thinks you should go,” Bard said. Tilda seemed so calm that he didn’t want to unsettle her by telling her the Sorting Hat didn’t always take the student’s choice into consideration. He decided to let her continue to believe she had autonomy over the process. Knowing Tilda (and her enthusiasm) as he did, no outcome would surprise him; she could end up in any of the houses, and would flourish in whichever one was lucky to have her. “Anyway, it’s only the twenty-eighth, so you have a few days to worry about it,” he added. 

“I’m not worried.” 

“All right, then,” Bard said agreeably, fighting the urge to chuckle. “Well, now what do you want to do?”

Minerva cleared her throat and stepped into Bard’s line of sight. “I thought I might take Bain to look at Gryffindor Tower,” she suggested. “And I can have Thranduil show Sigrid around Ravenclaw, if he isn’t busy.” 

Bard shrugged and nodded. It was a good idea, since the older students would already be familiar with their dormitories. After his show of approval, Minerva went to the fireplace and scooped up a bit of green powder from a pot on the mantle to throw it into the flames. 

“Professor Oropherion’s quarters!” she stated in a firm voice, as the fire turned green. She stooped down and positioned herself in the flames. “Thranduil? Do you have some time? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you...”

He must have replied in the affirmative, because when Minerva left the fire, she was smiling. 

A moment later, the fire flared and Thranduil stepped through the green flames. Once he arrived in the office and settled, he brushed the soot off of his robes with a few elegant strokes of his hands. He looked around, pausing briefly at the sight of Bard, who smiled in response, and then turned his attention to Minerva. 

“What can I do for you, Headmistress?”

She smiled. “Well, we’ve sorted Sigrid and Bain, and Sigrid is to be in Ravenclaw,” she told him. Thranduil smiled in Sigrid’s direction. “I am hoping you could take her through the dormitory and show her around.” 

“Certainly,” Thranduil said. He looked at Sigrid. “Congratulations on joining my house,” he said. “I hope you’re up to the challenge.” 

Sigrid nodded. “I am.” 

"Good," he said. He smiled. "You may find it difficult compared to your previous school, but the Sorting Hat saw something in you that suggested you'd get the most out of your time here in Ravenclaw. And my door is always open to anyone wishing to learn or needing help." 

Sigrid nodded again. Bard saw the determined look on her face and smiled. Thranduil nodded at him, then to Minerva, and motioned towards the door. Sigrid set off and he followed. 

When they were alone, Bard looked at Minerva, who was watching him carefully. “Did you want to join us?” she asked.

Bard shook his head. He huffed out a little laugh when Tilda asked if she could go with them, looking very excited at the idea of getting a glimpse of the dormitories. When Bain said he didn’t mind, Minerva welcomed her to join their tour. Minerva asked Bard if he’d like to join them, but he declined. It may have felt like he’d been ditched by his children---only a little, and not in a bad way---but the possibility of some free time was suddenly appealing. 

“You guys go and have fun. I think I’ll head down to the carriage house and get my tools set up,” he said. 

Minerva nodded and his remaining children all but ran from the room. She smiled and went after them. Bard smiled at her back, lingering in the office to look at the portraits for a moment, and then he too left the office.


	3. Chapter 3

On the last day of August, the day before the students were set to arrive, Bard felt a peaceful calm settle onto him. He’d finished all but one of the potions for the Hospital Wing, and the remaining one that needed to simmer for a few weeks was set up safely in his office; he’d put together a curriculum for all three years under his instruction and he’d gone over it twice. He felt ready. 

He rewarded himself for this by spending some time in the musty carriage house with his new project car. The first few trips to the makeshift garage were to unpack his equipment and set it up in a layout he preferred; he'd been looking forward to focusing on the car itself and his next visit was spent cataloguing what work needed to be done first. Bain had been with him when he had done a cursory inspection, but Bard wanted to put together a plan of action so he surveyed the car from top to bottom, outside to inside. Despite the signs of rust eating away at car's edges, it was far from a lost cause. Glimpses of potential could be seen when Bard smoothed his hand over a door panel, when he fiddled with some of the mechanical parts under the hood. Leaning back against the carriage house wall, he surveyed from a distance and thought about what he wanted to attack first.

Since his children were in their home away from home, or the rooms Bard was appointed when he accepted his position, packing up what they wanted to take with them to their dorms, he felt like he could stay with the car and get a bit of disassembly done. With his equipment already checked to make sure his air compressor and welding equipment would work at the school (as sometimes muggle equipment didn’t work under Hogwarts’ magical fields), he rolled up his sleeves and started to work. 

He’d removed some of the components from under the hood and was busy inspecting them piece by piece at his workbench when he heard a commotion in the area outside the building. Curious, he set down the metal bits and peeked outside---and was promptly attacked by a chirruping, wriggling bundle of fur. 

“Cado!” Bard exclaimed as he took in the sight of his family’s pet otter. “How’d you get out---” he broke off and sighed. The otter rarely stayed where he was supposed to be, and Bard silently scolded himself for thinking that being at Hogwarts would be any different. 

He scooped Cado into his arms, holding him securely. Then he looked up. He saw Thranduil marching towards them, wand in hand, and he snorted. 

“What did he do?” Bard asked the other wizard. 

“You… that menace is yours?! Of course he is!” 

Bard smiled a bit. “He belongs to my children, really, but I guess I can take responsibility for him.” 

Thranduil growled. “Keep him out of my quarters!” 

“I didn’t send him there. He tends to get into places he know he shouldn’t, but---”

Cado squeaked. Bard recognised the sound and knew what was coming. When Cado disappeared with a soft _pop!_ , Bard laughed at the look of surprise on Thranduil’s face. 

“He does that sometimes. He’s like a house elf,” Bard said, “for some reason the castle wards don’t apply to him.” 

Thranduil growled again. 

“What did he do?” Bard asked. 

“He nearly destroyed several old manuscripts from which I was translating spells of old magic!” Thranduil exclaimed. “He came into my office and when I’d turned my back, he---”

His rant was interrupted when a small bird fluttered down onto his shoulder. Bard recognised the thrush as one of those that sought him out frequently since his return, and whistled a little greeting. To Bard’s surprise, Thranduil whistled a greeting to the bird, too.

Bard startled. Thranduil smiled at the thrush, seemingly oblivious to Bard’s reaction to their brief exchange. 

“Hey… um, can I help you sort it all out? The mess, I mean?” Bard asked. 

Thranduil turned his attention from the bird to Bard. He swept his icy pale gaze down to Bard’s hands, grimaced in disgust, and looked back up into Bard’s face. 

“Absolutely not. You’ll ruin the pages with your greasy paws. They require care and delicacy.” 

“I can clean up.”

Thranduil sniffed. “No, thank you.” 

“All right then. But, if you change your mind, just send a thrush. They usually know how to find me.” 

Thranduil’s brow furrowed as he contemplated Bard’s words. He frowned when the thrush lifted up from his shoulder and flew around their heads. Eventually, it landed on the top of the open door, fluttering its wings as it settled. 

Before either of them could say anything else, Thranduil hissed and clapped a hand over his wrist. Bard caught sight of a bracelet under his hand, of shiny links catching the light before his fingers covered it. Concerned that the bracelet was hurting Thranduil's wrist, Bard approached tentatively. He wasn't sure of the boundaries between them---especially since Thranduil seemed annoyed with him thanks to Cado's actions---and he didn't want to overstep them. Thranduil's focus changed, from his wrist to Bard, and he snapped his eyes up before Bard got too close.

"Are you injured?" Bard asked.

“It’s nothing,” Thranduil interjected as he drew his wrist up to his chest, still wrapped it in his other hand. “A warning charm to alert me to Tauriel’s more destructive ways. It heats, depending on the severity of the mess in her wake.” 

"Ouch. Hopefully it can be fixed easily," Bard responded, wincing in sympathy. "She seems like a good kid. Tilda likes her... I think they're on their way to becoming friends." 

“Right. Yes. That would be good... she's had a hard time making friends," Thranduil said. He adjusted the bracelet, ensuring it was underneath his sleeve. "I should go."

Nodding, Bard spoke quickly. "Yes, of course. And if you do change your mind about the help---"

“Unlikely,” Thranduil said, cutting off his offer. “Just do your best to keep that meddlesome beast out of my private quarters or I’ll turn him into a doormat.” 

“I’ll try.” 

_“Uppity!”_ the bird commented from its perch. 

Bard snorted. Thranduil glared at him for a moment before storming off. 

_“It probably wasn’t a good idea to say that,”_ Bard told the thrush. 

_“He only imagines he talks with us,”_ the bird replied. 

He contemplated Thranduil’s reaction to the bird, and its own brief account of the wizard’s behaviour towards them. Throselmouths were extremely rare, not part of popular magical discourse. Bard had no idea how he’d been born one, especially since he was muggleborn and it seemed to be genetic (as his daughters demonstrated the ability, too); he’d never encountered anyone else in the magical world in the United Kingdom or in Ottawa who had the same ability. 

As he watched Thranduil retreat into the castle by way of the greenhouses, Bard realised it was possible that Thranduil didn't know he could speak the language. Bard hadn't known it was special once he'd become aware of his speaking a different language; it wasn't until he'd done some research and been made aware of other wizards' abilities that he realised how unique being a Throselmouth was. Wanting to tell Thranduil about his (their) ability, but doubting how to present the suggestion in a way that was believable, Bard decided he would wait and see if his suspicions were correct, before approaching Thranduil and sharing that information.

He smiled; he liked Thranduil when he wasn't being too difficult, and was curious about him. Trying to spend more time with the mysterious Thranduil Oropherion was an appealing prospect, and Bard found himself looking forward to the casual investigation he was planning.

When he ducked back into the carriage house, Bard took a look around at his surroundings and laughed. Cado was curled up in a ball on the tattered cushion of the driver's seat, resting peacefully. 

“You are a menace,” Bard murmured. 

Cado made life interesting for his family, with his uncanny knack for mischief and his magical abilities, and he came to them by chance when they were still mourning. He brightened their days when they’d seemed impossibly dark; for that fact alone, Bard would never mind the mischief as much as others around him did. 

The otter opened one eye and twitched his whiskers. He squeaked and then disappeared from sight with another popping sound. 

Bard chuckled and returned to the workbench.

&&&&&

Seeing Tilda at the front of the Great Hall, with all of the other first year students, waiting to be sorted, reminded Bard of his own sorting. He remembered feeling nervous, the excitement at getting to go to a school with other people like him and at being away from home for the first time bubbling up inside of him; he remembered not being able to sit still, fidgeting as that energy coursed through his body, and how small he felt looking around at all the grandeur of the castle.

Tilda seemed excited, but there was no uncertainty in her. She grinned at him; he smiled back.

"Bowdyn, Tilda!" Thranduil called out.

She scurried to the front of the group. As Thranduil set the Sorting Hat upon her head, Bard leaned forward and watched. He heard Minerva chuckling, but paid her little mind. He was excited for Tilda and he was curious to see where she would be placed.

The hat took a few minutes before shouting "Gryffindor!" loudly, for the room to hear. The students seated at the Gryffindor tables burst into applause; Bard could see (and hear) Tauriel shouting the loudest, thrilled that the girl she met before school started would be in the same house. Bard grinned as Tilda raced to her new friend, pausing only to ruffle Bain's hair as she found her place next to Tauriel. After a hug, they sat down together and she was lost to Bard's sight as older students congratulated her on joining them.

“Brandybuck, Meriadoc!” Thranduil called out. 

“And that’s that,” the Headmistress murmured from Bard’s right side as Thranduil plopped the Sorting Hat on the little boy’s head. 

“Hufflepuff!” the hat shouted, with little delay. 

“Mattie would have been thrilled,” Bard said quietly in as much agreement as he could muster. “They’re going to do great.” 

“And you?”

“Aye, I’m pleased. Sigrid will think otherwise, but she’s much more of a worrier than the rest of us,” Bard said quietly. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without her---though I regret she had to grow up too fast.” 

Minerva smiled and patted his hand. “You both managed. And she seems fine. You raised them well.” 

“Thanks, Minerva,” he replied, as Dwalin Durinstone was called to the front of the hall to be sorted. He watched as the young boy glared at Thranduil, who frowned back, and he turned to the Headmistress. “They don’t get along?”

Minerva chuckled. “Thranduil and the boy’s uncle, Thorin Thráinnick, do not get along. Thorin’s sister is here, too, sorted into Slytherin. A sixth year,” she explained and sighed. “The war has left marks on us all, Bard. Some will heal, and some will not,” she said, vaguely continuing her explanations, “and the one between Professor Oropherion and the Thráinnick line will probably only ever fade into resentment.” 

Dwalin was sorted into Slytherin. He jumped from the stool before Thranduil had a grip on the Sorting Hat. He barely had time to pluck it from the boy’s head before he was rushing off to join his house. 

“We were lucky to convince Thranduil to come to Hogwarts,” Minerva continued, still watching the man in question. “He’s brilliant with charms, but his strength lies in defensive magic. He is a hero of the war, in his own way, though he’d deny it with his dying breath.” 

Bard turned to look at her again. “Really?” he asked, curiosity piqued. 

She nodded. “He kept many witches and wizards safe and hidden,” she said, “at great risk to himself. He’s from one of the oldest pureblood families, his father was a difficult man at the best of times and agreed with many of Tom Riddle’s beliefs, but Thranduil… He's different; he protected as many of the ‘undesirables’ as he could. He built secret places in his home, warded them carefully, and managed to keep some people safe when the Death Eaters were looking for half-bloods and muggleborns.” 

Turning his gaze to Thranduil, Bard tried to imagine the man putting himself in such a dangerous position. He barely knew Thranduil, they'd only interacted a few times, but it was becoming clearer that Thranduil had secret depths and layers. During the war there had been people who fought against Voldemort and his followers---obviously, or else there wouldn't have been a war, just a regime change---but to willingly gather and protect half-bloods and muggleborns was an act of defiance that was just as brave, in Bard's mind, if not braver. The evidence against him would have been there for anyone to see, if he'd been caught, and then he would have been imprisoned (or killed) for committing treason. Thranduil hadn't had to protect himself, his family. He could have walked down the streets of Diagon Alley or anywhere else in the Wizarding World without fear. His blood status wasn't in question, yet he risked that safety to protect others who would have been killed on sight.

Beyond the risk to Thranduil's safety, Bard realised that Thranduil must be and incredibly smart and powerful wizard to be able to cast spells that the Death Eaters would not have detected. He watched Thranduil place the Sorting Hat on another student's head, his delicate fingers smoothing over its brim before moving away, and he tried to reconcile the glimpses of Thranduil he'd been allowed to see with the story Minerva shared with him. 

It was like he was looking at one person and hearing about someone completely separate. He was stunned, and on behalf of others like him, he felt warmth in his heart.

Clearing his throat of the swell of emotion he felt in reaction to his contemplations, Bard said, “That’s incredibly clever. And very brave. It was quite a risk he took.”

Minerva nodded. “I found out during the trials, when those who’d been hunted spoke up.” 

“Wow.” 

“The young girl he adopted, Tauriel, is one of the orphans brought to him for protection. She was just a babe when her parents were killed.” 

Glancing at Minerva, seeing the softening of the hard lines in her face, Bard smiled. Thranduil was intelligent, brave, and kind-hearted. Yet, he hid it behind a reserved and stern facade. Bard didn't understand that. As he turned back to watch another student be sorted, questions came together in his mind. He wanted to ask Thranduil about the experience, he wanted to know why Thranduil risked his life to protect those in danger. However, Bard knew he couldn't ask him right away; questions about the war weren't always well-received and he understood that, having survived that awful time himself. 

“He’s stuck in his ways, and sometimes difficult to deal with, but he's the best Defence Against the Dark Arts professor we've had,” Minerva said as she picked up her goblet of wine. “I hope you two will work out your differences.” 

“Huh?”

She sipped her wine. When she set the goblet down, she looked at Bard over her spectacles. “I’m not blind, you know, and the castle keeps me informed about the activities on its grounds.” 

Bard shrugged, feeling a little sheepish. “Well… Cado decided to surprise him. He wasn’t wild about that,” he confessed. 

Smiling a little, she said, "I know. I hope you didn't take offence to his... attitude."

Bard chuckled. "Cado's good at getting into trouble, and I should've kept a better eye on him, but no, no offence taken." 

The last student---Largo Whitfoot---was sorted into Hufflepuff and Thranduil was moving the stool and Sorting Hat behind the staff table. Minerva rose to her feet, thanked Thranduil for his work, and then moved around to the front of the table. After striding smoothly to the golden podium she tapped her wand against it. 

The students’ chatterings died down to a low murmur. 

“Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and a good evening to you all,” she announced loudly. “There are a few start-of-term announcements before we begin our feast. Your Heads of House will go over the standard rules with you this evening, once you retire to your dormitories, of course, but I would like to make it clear that anyone caught with products from Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes will likely face a detention for their trouble.”

A few students, Bard noticed, were pouting. He stifled a little laugh. He’d read an advertisement about their products in an issue of The Daily Prophet and immediately thought about how much fun he would have had if they’d been in business when he’d been a student. 

“Mister Gamgee has asked that you stay out of the vegetable patch as the flutterby bushes adjacent to it are flowering,” Minerva told the students. 

“Really?” Bard asked Sam, who sat on his other side. “That’s rare.” 

Sam nodded. "I have to keep a Bobblehead Charm on when I prune 'em these days. I'm too big for the bushes to eat, but the scent makes me dizzy, it does," he explained under his breath. “Don’t want the students getting dragged in. They’d be fine, since the bushes prefer bugs and little creatures, but it’s not worth the risk.” 

Bard nodded and leaned back in his seat just as Minerva continued with her announcements. 

“And, we have some new staff this year, as well,” she said. “Miss Hannah Abbott will be working in the Hospital Wing, under Madam Pomfrey’s supervision, and Frodo Baggins will be assisting Professor Binns with History of Magic. Additionally, Professor Bard Bowdyn will be teaching Potions to the first, second, and third year classes. I hope you will all do your best to make our new additions feel welcome to our hallowed halls. 

“Now, then!” She paused and clapped her hands together twice. The platters on the table filled with food from the kitchens. She smiled at her students. “Enjoy the feast and have a good night!” 

Everyone dug into the meal with enthusiasm, as far as Bard could see. He sipped from his tankard and looked around the room. The staff was selecting what they would like to eat, some of them still talking. Thranduil, wedged between Slytherin’s Head of House, Professor Grenouillère, and Horace Slughorn, seemed to be doing the same thing; he frowned slightly as he watched Sam pour a bit more ale into his own handled glass, while sliding his fingers up and down the stem of his wine goblet. When his gaze met Bard, who raised his glass in a sort of friendly salute, his frown did not disappear but he nodded in reply. 

Bard looked away from the staff table and glanced at the grouping of Ravenclaw students. He saw Sigrid talking with a few of the other students from her year. At the Gryffindor table, Bard saw that Bain was listening to something two other boys were saying, and Tilda was chatting with Tauriel and another girl, with big grey eyes and long dark hair. 

“That’s Mister Minyatur’s daughter.” 

Bard startled. Minerva was sitting next to him again, looking amused. 

“The girl, next to Tilda,” Minerva said. “She’s the daughter of our librarian, Elrond,” she explained, gesturing to the man at the end of the table next to Professor Grenouillère. “His two sons graduated last year and are currently working with the new Department of Law Enforcement. Little Arwen’s only in her second year. She’s very studious, but has a penchant for daring escapades that get her into trouble.” 

“I… well, she’s young.” 

Minerva smiled. “True.” She pulled a piece of the roast onto her plate. “I’m telling you this so you’ll be prepared when you start taking on some of Gryffindor’s responsibilities.” 

Bard chuckled. “You never let up, do you?”

“Never. Mark my words, you’ll be Head of Gryffindor House by next year.”

&&&

_“Laaaate!”_

Bard growled at the thrush sitting on the window ledge. “Yes, yes, I know,” he muttered under his breath as he hurried down the hall from his quarters, bag precariously slung over his shoulder and his hair falling out of its loose bun. 

He’d meant to get to class early, to be ready for his group of first year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, but he'd slept poorly, feeling lonelier than he'd expected to with his children tucked away into their own dormitories. It was silly, since they were only a few corridors and floors away, but he'd had no control over his reaction. That feeling combined with his nerves jittering before his first class were enough to rob him of his sleep, making him sluggish to move. At that moment, his students would be lined up outside his classroom and he was not there to welcome them. He wished he’d been more attentive to the time. 

After he crashed into a solid object and fell down, his first thought was that he hadn’t remembered any mobile suits of armour on that floor. When he looked up from his position on the floor and saw Thranduil looking down at him, he groaned. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see you.” 

“I assumed as much,” Thranduil replied. He reached out a hand towards Bard and helped him rise. “Are you all right?”

Bard nodded. “As much as I can be,” he muttered as he adjusted his bag and brushed off his clothing. “Are you hurt?”

Thranduil shook his head and seemed to study Bard for a moment, making him feel a little uneasy to be on the receiving end of his sharp stare. Then his gaze seemed to relax, his eyes softening in the corners as his brows lifted a bit.“Keep your students busy and engaged,” Thranduil said, “because as soon as you give them a moment, that’s when trouble will happen.” 

“I… what?”

“And organise them. If you want them to keep notes a certain way, tell them, because they won’t figure it out for themselves,” Thranduil continued. “Additionally, if you’re concerned about their evaluation of you, you could suggest they submit weekly journals about the lessons---but be warned, you may not like what they have to say.” 

It took Bard a moment to realise Thranduil was giving him advice. Filing away that information, he smiled. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I’ll… I better…” he trailed off and motioned towards the stairs at the end of the hall. 

“You could have flooed there, you know,” Thranduil reminded him. “You could ask a house elf to start a fire in your office a few minutes before class is set to start.” 

“Oh. Right. I hadn’t considered that an option.” 

Thranduil smirked. “Good luck.” 

With a smile, and something like gratitude for the support settling inside him, Bard moved past Thranduil. He turned back, remembering his manners and feeling a desire to return the sentiment. On a whim, inspired by his curiosity about Thranduil's behavior with the little birds outside the carriage house, he whistled in Throseltongue. _“I hope you have a good first day, too, Professor,”_ he told him in the thrushes’ language. 

Thranduil turned. “Thank you,” he said, in English. “See you later, Professor Bowdyn.” 

Bard smiled, filed away that exchange as a bit of evidence, and hurried to his class. 

The first years had been let into the room by Professor Slughorn. Bard wasn’t pleased about that---because he suspected Minerva would hear something about his punctuality later in the day---but he let it go because he had a roomful of young students waiting for him. 

Overall, the class went well. He seemed to have their interest, though he didn’t know why; he took advantage of their attention, all the same, and discussed he expected of them and why he felt anyone could brew a successful potion if they knew enough about the ingredients and their reactions to heat and processing. The Ravenclaws seemed the most interested about his take on the subject matter; they asked plenty of questions, some of which he never expected eleven-year-olds to ask. Many of the group didn’t like being told that they’d start slow, by learning how to prepare ingredients before ever getting near a cauldron, but Bard assured them they’d be brewing soon enough and that seemed to placate them. 

He took them through the properties of dried nettles and porcupine quills---as they were two ingredients required for the boil-cure potion---and showed them a collection of different cauldrons, telling them the different properties of each cauldron’s materials. Then, he asked them to do the reading on those ingredients they’d discussed and on snake fangs and horned slugs for the next day. 

“Thanks, Professor Bowdyn!” one of the little Ravenclaws said, waving as she fled the class after her friend. 

Bard smiled and waved back. Once he was alone, he settled down in his chair. He laughed quietly, drumming his fingers on the desk. The nervous jitters he'd felt weren't nearly as strong as they'd been earlier, before he'd gotten through the class without any trouble. He knew that wouldn't always be the case---there would eventually be trouble or some sort of event that would disrupt the calm he'd experienced---but he was beginning to believe he could handle any disruptions. 

A knock on the doorframe broke his thoughts. He looked towards the door and saw Tilda and her new friend, Tauriel, standing in there. It was time for the Gryffindors and Slytherins, he realised; he grinned and welcomed them into the room. 

“Come in and find a seat,” he called out. 

He stood up and walked around his desk. Tilda and Tauriel took seats at the front, and everyone else from Gryffindor followed their lead into the room. The Slytherin faction kept to themselves, along the side and back of the room. Bard knew he’d eventually be mixing up pairs of students for the brewing exercises, since one of Minerva's policies was to integrate the students more with those from other houses, but he left them as they were since there was no brewing happening that day. Gryffindors and Slytherins rarely got along in his day; he suspected that hadn’t changed, as their natures were rather different. He made a mental note to ask Minerva about mixing them up and what troubles it could cause, before going back to his curriculum and repeating the lesson he’d given his first class. 

They were doing fine until Dwalin started muttering to his friends. When he roused them to laughter, Bard turned and made it clear that distractions were not appreciated. Dwalin tried again, and five points from Slytherin House seemed to drive the point home. Bard turned his attention back to the handling of ingredients and Dwalin reluctantly returned to his note-taking. Making it to the bell without any further disruption, Bard decided to consider the class another success. 

After dismissing the group of students, he turned to his desk and waved his wand. His textbook and notes slid into his bag. He reached for the strap, but before he could sling it over his shoulder, he heard Tilda talking. 

“Da? Or… Professor Bowdyn?”

Bard smiled as he turned around. He crouched down in front of her. “You can call me whatever you’re comfortable with,” he said. “I know it’s weird.” 

Her grin was bright and he reached up to brush his fingers over her cheek, tucking some of her loose hair behind her ear as they moved.

"You know your dragon’s showing, right?" she said. "It was on your hand for most of the class."

Glancing down, he saw his tattoo resting around his wrist and onto the back of his hand. The dragon, a Common Welsh Green, blinked up at him, but eventually unwound itself from his wrist and slithered back up his arm. He’d gotten the tattoo when he turned seventeen, considered an adult by wizarding law, and while it had been placed on his left shoulder at the time, it was charmed to move over his back, chest, and left arm. He was used to it settling wherever it wished, so he rarely thought about it, but he realised it may have drawn the attention of his young students away from the lesson. 

“Is that what the boys were talking about?” he asked her.

“I think so.” 

“Thanks, love,” he murmured. “I’ll try to keep it hidden away from now on.” 

“Don’t worry about it. They prob’ly thought it was cool,” she said. 

He chuckled. “You might be right about that,” he admitted. “How’s your day going?”

“It’s been fun!” she chirped. “We had Transfiguration with Aunt Minerva! She turned into a cat for us!” 

Bard grinned. “I bet that was a crowd pleaser.” 

Tilda nodded. Then, she glanced at the door, where Tauriel was waiting for her. Sensing a dismissal in his future, he kissed her forehead and ushered her towards the door. 

“I’ll be around all afternoon if you need anything, either in my office or our rooms,” he told her. “Go have fun.” 

She nodded again, grinned, and took off towards her new friend. As they disappeared from sight, Bard chuckled. He gathered up his things, lowered the flames on the lamps, and headed towards the Great Hall. When he spied the Owlery through one of the windows he decided to take a detour to the birds’ haven. Once there, he wrote a quick note on a scrap of parchment to thank Thranduil for his advice. He rolled it up and asked one of the school's owls to take it to Thranduil. 

There was no immediate response. Bard hadn't expected one, though, and carried out his plans for the day. He brewed some of the potions Poppy had included on her list, went to supper, and returned to his quarters to unpack some of the boxes he'd ignored in favour of getting his office readied. When he was on the last box and his second stout, a tapping at the window interrupted him. He opened it and saw Thranduil’s bird of prey with a small scroll in the talons of one foot. 

“Thanks,” he told the raptor. 

He took the message and the bird flew away. After closing the window, he broke the seal on the scroll; he unfurled it slowly, taking care with the parchment even though he was curious about the contents of the message. It was brief, written in an elegantly slanted script, and its blue ink glistened slightly in the light of the room’s lamps:

_You’re welcome. I'm glad I could help, but I'm sure you would have found your footing on your own.  
Congratulations on surviving your first day.  
\--T. Oropherion_


	4. Chapter 4

The first few weeks of the fall term passed more quickly than Bard thought they would; he felt like he’d started settling into a routine, balancing his duties as a teacher with his familial responsibilities, and he realised time was breezing by as a result. When he entered the Great Hall one morning and saw it decorated for Hallowe’en, he was genuinely surprised that two months had passed since he had first arrived at the school. 

“Good morning, sir,” Bard said to Horace as he sat down at the staff table. 

Lowering his teacup, Horace gave him a small smile. Their relationship was mostly professional, but Horace had warmed up to Bard when he realised Bard’s skills were proficient, despite the untraditional methods he employed. “Good morning to you, Mister Bowdyn,” Horace replied. “Looking forward to the festivities today?”

Bard smiled back at him and nodded. “Should be a good time, with the feast and all,” Bard said. A carafe of coffee was on the table near his plate; he reached for it and poured some into his mug. “Are you dressing up?” 

“Yes, yes… Minerva wouldn’t let me hear the end of it if I didn’t,” Horace said. "Though, these days, my idea of an ideal celebration would be a glass of oak-matured mead and a good book."

“It’ll be fun,” Bard said to assure him. 

A snort to his left drew Bard’s attention. He turned his head to see Thranduil next to him. 

“Last year, someone decided to go as the Giant Squid,” Thranduil said. He reached for the bowl of fruit salad, continuing to speak as he scooped some of the dish onto his plate. “He spelled his tentacles so they could move… and they created quite a stir.” 

Once he’d finished swallowing some of his coffee, Bard frowned. “I hope no one was seriously---”

“No,” Horace interrupted, snorting a little before continuing, “but he was slapped several times for his ingenuity. And received a month of detentions to boot.” 

“Lesson learned, then?” Bard asked. 

“I suppose,” Thranduil replied, tilting his head a little to one side. “But, between his costume, the girl who dressed as an acromantula, and all the usual antics the students get up to when celebrating something, it was an exhausting night.” 

Bard shrugged. “Well, I guess I have that to look forward to.” 

Thranduil arched one of his eyebrows as he smirked. “To look forward to,” he echoed, sounding amused. 

Bard hoped Thranduil was being dramatic---he’d discovered that Thranduil had a tendency to embellish for effect---because he was looking forward to the evening. Being at the castle had given Bard a chance to allow frivolity into his life again; he wasn’t solely concerned with the safety of his family or the amount of galleons in his vault anymore, and the idea of dressing up for a night to enjoy a celebration with the students and staff was appealing. 

“The Samhain rituals should be interesting,” Bard said. “You’re participating, right?”

After a bite of fruit, Thranduil nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “I’m one of the few lucky to escape the late-night patrols of the castle.” 

“So, you have something to look forward to as well,” Bard pointed out. 

He wasn't always sure where he stood with Thranduil, but Bard had the overall sense that they were moving past co-workers and into the realm of colleagues... and maybe even of friends. Thranduil's reserved nature---or the outward appearance of such a nature---made it difficult to get to know him, but Bard was patient. Plying him with questions and conversation whenever he could, Bard was slowly being rewarded for his efforts with tidbits of information to help him put together an image of the real Thranduil.

“Always the optimist, Professor Bowdyn.” 

“Always the pessimist, Professor Oropherion,” Bard said in reply, smiling to soften his words. 

Thranduil sniffed, but his lips were still curved very slightly so he didn’t seem too annoyed. 

The level of noise---already quite boisterous---began to swell. Bard looked up and saw the owls flying into the room, dropping parcels, envelopes, and scrolls at various students’ places. Thranduil's goshawk stood out from the pack as she always did. Bard admired her grace as she glided through the Great Hall and around the other birds. Gelia, as Bard had learned when Thranduil had corrected his assumption that she was a type of hawk, bore something small wrapped on her leg. Swooping down to the staff table, she landed on the back of Thranduil's chair; Thranduil extended his arm and she hopped down to perch upon him. 

“Hello, Gelia,” Thranduil murmured, “what do you have for me today?”

The bird extended her leg, revealing a scroll tied there. As he thanked her for her efforts, Thranduil removed it with quick fingers. She settled back, chest puffed out, looking rather pleased with herself. 

“Anything important?” Bard asked. 

Thranduil shrugged. “A missive from my son.” 

“Legolas?” 

“No, my firstborn,” Thranduil replied. “Arphenion is in London.” 

Horace rejoined the flow of conversation, asking about Thranduil's oldest son. Bard listened to them talking across him, filing away the bits of information he was able to glean. Arphenion had been brilliant at potions, according to Horace, but Thranduil said he was off studying rare creatures at a remote location.

"Always so clever, that one," Horace said to Bard. "He has a knack for getting animals to calm. I'd never seen anyone who could charm a unicorn into giving him some of his tail, until Arphenion did it."

Before Bard could respond, a female voice, at a low murmur, inserted itself into their discussion. “How is he getting on with his studies?” 

Bard looked up and saw Professor Galadriel Grenouillère standing behind them. She taught Arithmancy and the other forms of divination not covered by Professor Trelawney and while that was enough to put Bard on guard whenever she was around him, it was her eerily calm demeanor and penetrating gaze that made him feel most uneasy in her presence. He’d heard stories about her since coming to the castle; some of the staff loved to gossip and they’d told him about how she convinced Horace to give up his post as Head of Slytherin House and how she had a knack for knowing things she shouldn’t, almost as if she could read minds. Bard took care in what he said and did when he was near her. 

Thranduil’s shoulders stiffened minutely. He turned his head to look at her. “He’s fine,” Thranduil told her. “He appreciated the letter of reference you provided for him.” 

“Of course he did,” Galadriel said. She smiled and brushed her long, blond hair over her shoulders. “He was one of my favourite students. He does not possess the sight, but few do, and his studious nature was always welcome in my classes.” 

She started to reach out to pet Gelia, but the bird snapped at her fingers before they got too close to the bird. As if thinking better of it she pulled her hand back. She smiled again. Then, after excusing herself, she glided past them and went to the end of the staff table. 

Thranduil grumbled quietly, so much so that Bard couldn’t make out the words. The tone, however, was not pleasant, giving Bard the impression that Thranduil did not like her very much. As if sensing her master’s displeasure, Gelia butted her head against his. Her actions made Thranduil smile and he reached up to stroke her feathers in response. 

When Bard realised the time, he turned away and gulped down the rest of his coffee. “I better get going,” he said. “Hope you both have a good day,” he added to Horace and Thranduil, pushing himself up from his chair. 

He grabbed a piece of fruit from the tray on the table. Thranduil’s sharp intake of breath caught his attention; when he turned, he saw Thranduil staring at his hand. It would hardly be the apple in Bard's hand that made him react like that, but rather the tail of the dragon tattoo waving back and forth along his skin. With a smirk, Bard brushed the fingers of his other hand over it, causing the tail to curl up around his wrist. 

"Problem?" Bard asked.

With a shake of his head, Thranduil swallowed. "Hardly. I'd heard rumours that you had a Hungarian Horntail tattoo," he said, while his eyes shifted away from Bard's and towards his plate. "But, it's a Welsh Green."

"Aye, but it's a friendly one," Bard teased, grinning at Thranduil before he left the table.

&&&

“Trick or treat!”

Grinning at the cheer, something he was used to hearing in Ottawa but thought he wouldn't hear again after they'd returned home, Bard stepped out of the open portrait hole to let his children into the room. 

They looked great. Bain was dressed up as one of The Weird Sisters, as part of a group costume he and his dorm-mates had put together; he had the unkempt hair, sparkling eyeliner, and signature hairy blazer of the lead singer done to perfection. Sigrid had managed to make a costume that resembled a dragon. She wore a headpiece with horns and other embellishments, a scaly chestplate, and a set of wings that were tissue-paper thin and glittering that attached to her gloved hands so they could move whenever she moved her arms; the whole costume was painted in dark reds and oranges, giving her a fiery, dangerous impression even though she was smiling pleasantly. Tilda wore pieces of what looked to be a suit of armour, and she held onto a cardboard sword and shield that were painted in Gryffindor’s colours. 

“Wow,” Bard said at the sight of them. “Well done.” 

“You, too, Da,” Sigrid said. 

Tilda seemed torn between being excited and disappointed. Her facial expression kept changing, but eventually a smile won the battle. She tapped the dark armour Bard was wearing. “You look kinda like me,.” she said, a hint of complaint in her tone. 

“Aye, but I’m a bad knight. A vampire,” he said. He opened his mouth and gestured to his exaggerated canines, a gift of genetics and not the result of a charm or spell. “I’m coming to drink the blood of my enemies and you’re a good kni---”

“I’m a dragon slayer,” she explained. “I’m gonna slay the evil dragon… and maybe an evil vampire if he steps out of line.” 

Bard suppressed the urge to laugh. Schooling his face into an expression of seriousness, he nodded. “Then, I better behave myself tonight.” 

She nodded solemnly, with all the gravitas an eleven year old could manage. “Yes, you should.” 

Her costume, albeit very good, was missing something she wouldn’t have been able to do with her level of magical skill. He pulled his wand from its hiding place; after getting permission from Tilda, he tapped its tip to her chest plate and the Gryffindor coat of arms appeared engraved into the shiny surface. 

“Now you’re a proper knight of your house,” he said before pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. 

Tilda’s smile was brilliant. She brandished her sword and pounced in Sigrid’s direction. Sigrid roared playfully while using her wand and a whispered spell to send a light dusting of reddish sparks towards Tilda, who held up her shield and played along enthusiastically. Cado hurried into the room and jumped between them before pouncing on Tilda. She giggled, dancing in the sparks with the family pet. 

Bard watched them play for a few minutes, amused by their antics, before he turned his attention to Bain. He straightened Bain’s jacket and tousled his hair a bit more. 

“Perfect. Just like the lead singer,” Bard said 

Bain smiled, his shoulders relaxing a little as he eased into a slouched pose. Hands jammed in his pockets and hair falling down over his face, he looked every inch a moody rockstar. Bard wondered about the other boys’ costumes; he looked forward to seeing the group together. 

Once Tilda finished playing with Cado, they left for the Great Hall. He'd told them about the feasts in his own time as a student there, about the lights and the food and the music, but he suspected the affair had become grander in his time away. He was almost as eager as they were to get there, and he didn't mind that he eventually lost Tilda, Sigrid, and Bain, in that order, to their friends as they made their way to main level of the castle. 

“Bard,” Elrond, the school’s librarian, came out of another corridor and smiled when he met Bard. “You look dangerous.” 

Grinning, Bard joked, “Only to my enemies.”

A small bird, one of the school’s younger thrushes as Bard knew from frequent conversations, fluttered down from a chandelier and landed on Bard’s shoulder. 

“I hope that isn’t one of your enemies,” Elrond said. 

Bard laughed and shook his head. As they made their way to the Great Hall, he took in Elrond’s costume. He was dressed in ornate robes; they appeared to be made of velvet though they almost floated. His ears were shaped into points that were glimpsed through his dark hair. Upon his head sat a circlet of silver wires and precious stones. 

“Elf king?”

“Essentially, yes,” Elrond corrected him. “Arwen decided to go as an elf princess---a character from a favourite book---and she insisted I go as the princess’ father.” 

“Well, you look the part.” 

Elrond smiled, bowing his head slightly as his lips curved. “Thank you,” he replied. 

Bard drifted away from Elrond as he took in the magnificent sight of the Great Hall decorated for Hallowe'en. It was grander than it had been during his time as a student, but there were similarities. The floating candles drifted between the crowds and the charmed ceiling; a full moon and twinkling stars added to the glittering light in the room. Pumpkins floated above them, too, their carved faces flickering down at everyone. Guessing the students carved some of them, Bard grinned at some of the misshapen faces; they'd done that same activity, carving pumpkins without the use of magic, under the supervision of the house elves, as they served a detention Minerva had given them for getting caught sneaking out of the dormitories. His grinning jack o'lantern had been clumsy looking when he'd finished; some of the pumpkins above him had the same look about them.

The sounds of conversation and laughter mixed with the steady thrum of popular music. He could smell spice and maple sugar on the air, but when Bard moved further into the room and past different tables there were scents of cooked foods to take in, too. It was different than the feasts he attended, as the meal was the main event in those cases, but the food looked just as delicious. After snatching a couple chips off of a platter, he looked around for his next destination. 

Two Harry Potters raced past him on his way to the drinks table. Bard smiled at their backs as he found a dark beer; after pouring himself a glass, he sipped and looked around the room. Costumes of creatures and characters from both wizarding and muggle worlds milled around him, showing the diversity and creativity of the castle’s inhabitants. 

The thrush had a few questions about the event, as if it had waited for a Throselmouth to come along before trying to investigate what they did when gathered like this; Bard answered as best as he could, between bites of food and sips of beer, but he doubted much of it made sense to the bird. Still, he caught himself explaining things when he wasn't busy talking to someone else and his feathered companion took it all in, cocking its head as it observed the festivities around them.

He spent most of the evening talking with his colleagues, enjoying the relaxed setting and their company. It seemed that everyone participating had come to the event in good spirits and with good intentions. The only trouble that Bard encountered was Pomona’s Whomping Willow costume’s attempt to unseat the thrush from his shoulder with a good swipe, but she spelled the branches still after their second try. 

Bard complimented some of his students on their costumes and watched his children from a distance. Seeing them happy made him grin and if he’d still held any doubts about returning to the Wizarding World on this side of the ocean they would have melted as he saw them laugh and carry on with their classmates having fun. Tilda was running around with Arwen and Éowyn, another second-year girl from Gryffindor House. Bain’s dorm-mates were carrying on with a group of Ravenclaws that had dressed as another wizarding band. Sigrid was in the centre of her friends, blushing as some of them were admiring the work she’d put into her costume but looking pleased all the same. 

A rustle in the crowd of students caught Bard's attention. It took a few minutes of glancing around, but Bard eventually discovered the source of the change. Thranduil had entered the Great Hall and students were eyeing him nervously. Doing his best to smother a little grin, Bard took in the sight of Thranduil while he could. He was dressed as a vampire, too, with fangs for teeth and blood painted at the corners of his mouth. His long cloak covered black clothes and tall leather boots; his cloak's collar stood up and framed his jaw. His fingernails looked like claws and his eyes seemed to have a reddish, glowing tint to them. Walking with a long stride, so that his hair and cloak billowed behind him, Thranduil paid little attention to those in his way. He didn't have to move, though, because most people between him and the back of the room moved out of his path with prompting. 

“Professor Bowdyn,” Thranduil said in greeting when he was close enough, coming to a stop at his side. “Or is it the Prince of Darkness?”

A small bark of laughter escaped Bard’s lips. He shook his head, still smiling, and said: “I’m more of a warrior of darkness. You look like the prince.” 

Thranduil narrowed his eyes, as if trying to decide if Bard’s words were a compliment or an insult, but after a moment, he relaxed and nodded. 

“And your friend?” Thranduil asked, gesturing to the bird on Bard’s shoulder. “Is it friend or foe?”

“Friend, I think.” When the bird fluttered off of Bard’s shoulder and onto Thranduil’s, Bard grinned. “And maybe yours, too,” he added. “S’not easily scared, that one.” 

“I like the birds here,” Thranduil said in a quiet voice, barely heard over the activity in the room. “They’re friendly.” 

Bard watched him brush his fingers over the bird’s head. The little creature preened, enjoying the contact. When Thranduil withdrew his fingers, the bird fluttered his wings. Smiling, Thranduil repeated his actions. 

_“He’s hardly scary,”_ the bird sang. 

_“He’s not threatening, no, but I think he makes a good vampire,”_ Bard replied. 

Thranduil frowned at Bard, but said nothing because a couple more boys dressed as Harry Potters rushed between them, chased by a contingent of ghosts and zombies, and their presence was enough to distract them both. When the boys passed a few of the other teachers, they provoked reactions ranging from strained smiles to scowls; none of the students reacted negatively and some seemed to be joining in a game of what appeared to be Harry Potter versus all the bad guys. 

“Every year more and more Potters appear,” Thranduil commented. 

“Their hero, I bet,” Bard said. “He’s done a lot for the school---and everyone in general.” 

Thranduil shrugged. “Still, it is unsettling for some. His image, even in costume, is a reminder of the war,” he said, voice still low. “If you’d been here then…”

When his words trailed off, Bard asked: “Were you? Here, I mean.” 

“No,” Thranduil replied. “I was not.” 

Bard wanted to ask something else---something, anything, to learn about Thranduil and his past---but before he could think of a question that wouldn’t be offensive or prying, a toy arrow shot into his chest plate and stuck to his armour. It wavered after impact, swinging from side to side before going still. 

“Gotcha!” 

Tauriel was a short distance away, fist raised triumphantly in the air. Her other hand held a bow and a quiver of toy arrows was hanging down her back. She was wearing a green tunic and tights, a little hat on her head. 

“I guess you did,” Bard agreed, smiling at her. “But you missed the heart, so---”

Quickly, Tauriel pulled another arrow from her quiver; it was knocked and loosened before Bard realised what she was doing. With a little thud, the arrow struck the near-centre of this chest plate. 

Turning his head so his face was tucked into his collar, Thranduil snorted. 

“I slew the vampire!” Tauriel exclaimed.

“Well done,” Bard said after a little chuckle. He tried tugging at the arrows, discovered that they wouldn’t move, and then it was Thranduil who was laughing. “What?” Bard asked.

“Sticking charm,” Thranduil explained, grinning smugly. “I did it myself.”

Tipping his head back, Bard laughed. He could have been annoyed, but it was only a costume. He laughed until he heard Thranduil join in with a deep chuckle; he turned his focus towards Thranduil, taking in the sight of the usually-reserved man laughing and trying to commit to memory. When Thranduil's laughter died away, they smiled at each other until Tauriel's departure interrupted them.

"Well, then," Bard said with mirth still in his voice, "I guess I've been killed. You'll have to find a new general of your undead army."

"And what makes you think you'd be the general of my army?" Thranduil inquired.

Bard grinned. "Well, no one else would apply for the job, I'd wager, since they can't see through your intimidation tactics," he replied, earning a snort from Thranduil. "I heard about the test you put the sixth years through, and that was just a practice drill."

Lifting his chin, Thranduil sniffed. "It's Defence Against the Dark Arts, not Muggle Studies. It requires a certain amount of challenge," he said, some stiffness returning to his voice. "Your daughter did well, though. Very quick thinking. She handled the boggart with an ease her classmates did not manage."

Warmth blossomed in Bard's chest, pride that burst pleasantly inside of him at hearing praise of his daughter's achievements. He knew Sigrid was a talented witch, but he was proud Thranduil thought she'd done well. When he nodded in thanks, Thranduil smiled. They discussed the obstacle course---a collection of jinxes and spelled objects combined with a few magical creatures---and how the students managed it. The course had been well-planned, Bard thought, and he enjoyed the stories about the students' negotiating the obstacles with varying degrees of success, particularly the story about the student who needed rescuing when his boggart turned into quicksand (though he'd never admit it to anyone else).

In the middle of Thranduil's explaining why he chose to put a grindylow in the course, when the species is endangered and rarely encountered anymore, the sound of students laughing caught their attention. Bard caught sight of Thranduil's relaxed expression turning into a grimace before he turned and tried to spot what had bothered him so much.

“What is it?” Bard asked.

"Legolas," Thranduil said. "He thinks he's being funny."

It took a minute for the crowd to move enough for Bard to see Legolas' costume. Amid a group of his fellow sixth-years, Legolas stood dressed in a set of Thranduil's robes, obviously charmed to fit his shorter frame. His hair was styled loose and straight as Thranduil styled his, and his facial expression was stern and disapproving until he burst out in a wide grin and laughed with his friends.

"He shrunk my robes," Thranduil muttered.

Chuckling, Bard shrugged. "I'm sure they'll be fine by the end of the night."

Thranduil glared at him. Bard smiled. "He makes a good you," he added teasingly. "He's got the stare nearly down."

With a roll of his eyes Thranduil adjusted the edges of his cloak, the fabric settling around his tall, thin frame in a flutter. The thrush on his shoulder took flight as his perch was disturbed; it flew above their heads for almost a minute before encountering a floating pumpkin bobbing through the air in its path and deciding to land upon Bard's shoulder again.

 _"Careful,"_ Bard whistled quietly, _"there are lots of obstacles in here."_

The bird ruffled its feathers. _"I could avoid them,"_ it chirped back.

Smiling and nodding, Bard turned his attention back to Thranduil. He was watching Bard with a curious expression on his face and his head tilted in contemplation.

"What?"

Thranduil shook his head. "It's nothing," he replied.

The chances of that being true were slim. Thranduil had made that face when he'd "just happened to be nearby” outside the Potions classroom during the second week of classes, as Bard's second year class of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws was starting. He had made that face when he saw Bard assign Dwalin Durinstone a detention for picking a fight with Tauriel. He had made that face when Bard caught him watching Bard during a staff meeting. Bard kept wondering about that face, though he usually wasn't sure what question to ask to get the information he wanted. This time, however, he suspected it was the whistling, his speaking in Throseltongue, because the possibility that Thranduil was a Throselmouth---or at least understood the whistling language---seemed more likely with every bit of evidence Bard gathered on the subject.

Bard hoped that's what it was, because he wasn't sure what else he'd done to warrant scrutiny this time. 

They stayed together for the remainder of the party, although they were sometimes joined by other members of the staff. When the music died down and Minerva announced that it was time for the students to return to their houses, Bard silently agreed with the students' groan of complaint. He'd been enjoying the time spent in Thranduil's company, and he hadn't realised so much time passed.

Giving a little gesture towards the door, Bard said, "I should..."

"Yes, go enjoy your patrol," Thranduil said, smirking a bit.

Bard chuckled. "It'll be fine, wrangling kids high on sugar back to their dorms," he said. He grinned and added, "Have fun at the ritual."

"Thank you," Thranduil replied. His smirk softened into a small smile. "I've been looking forward to it for weeks," he admitted. "I am intrigued about the process, the old magic."

"Yeah?"

"It isn't often performed," Thranduil said, "and very few books have been published on the subject."

"Something that's right up your alley, then?"

"Something like that, yes," Thranduil agreed.

With a smile and a wave before Bard he set off on his path out of the Great Hall and through the corridors. He saw Hannah breaking up a dispute between two young Hufflepuffs and they shared a smile over the children's heads. He waved to Minerva and Elrond as they left to go to the ritual site and after conferring with the other staff members on patrol he went to the west side of the castle to begin this night's duties.

&&&&&

After Hallowe'en, the school calendar seemed to be on a slippery slide into the holiday season. Students and staff were making plans for their holidays, projects were wrapped up, papers were due, and tests were given. Bard tried to find time for his children, but their weekly dinners were sometimes cancelled when one of them had studying (or grading, in Bard's case) to do. His project car, still in pieces in the carriage house, was likely to remain disassembled for at least another few weeks---until he had time to return to it. He was feeling the strain of a full schedule and dwindling time, and he was looking forward to the end of the term as much as the students were.

When he was asked to take over Horace's job as chaperone for the older students' last trip into Hogsmeade before the break, he thought about refusing. But when it occurred to him that he might do some of his Christmas shopping at the same time, he accepted. He started putting together a list of possible presents for the people in his life and he looked forward to the event as a chance to get ready for the holiday season.

On the Saturday of the field trip, it was chillier than it had been so far that November. Frost tipped the blades of grass so they sparkled white in the morning sun. He'd put on a warmer coat---wool instead of leather---and wrapped his scarf around his neck a few times for added protection from the chill. The students were bundled similarly, mostly in the woollen items from their uniforms, settled over coats and robes, and he heard some of them casting warming charms on their outerwear to further insulate them from the chill.

He walked down the hill with Thranduil and Elrond, who were bickering quietly about the meaning of a cryptic passage in a rare book about old magic. He thought about asking about the passage, but imagining their frustration directed at him was inspiration enough to keep him out of their disagreement---though he thought about playing referee a few times when their voices grew louder and more heated. 

Their organised trip turned into chaos, as expected, when the students descended upon the village. Ducking in and out of shops to browse their wares, Bard did his best to keep his eyes on them; he knew a few of them were planning on sneaking off to the Shrieking Shack, and he hoped to head them off before they reached the path that would take them into the woods and towards the lonely and supposedly haunted building. But, eventually, he became distracted when he'd decided to make a few purchases---a sled for Tilda, a set of dress robes for Bain, a dragonhide messenger bag for Sigrid, and small packages of treats for his colleagues---and he knew it was likely that some of the students slipped away.

When he'd tried to go down the path towards the abandoned house, Elrond caught up to him.

"They'll be fine," he assured Bard. "There's nothing in that place that can hurt them."

"You're sure?"

Elrond nodded. He smiled. "Go and finish your shopping," he advised. "I'll go down the path and check on them soon."

With a little nod of his own, Bard turned and headed into a bookshop. Some students---mostly Ravenclaws, although there were a handful from other houses---were perusing the shelves and thumbing through some of the volumes. 

He waved in greeting to the shop owner and made his way through the foyer to the bookshelves. He thought about buying a couple books for Sigrid, but he wasn’t sure what she’d already read; he found a book of adventures that he thought Tilda would enjoy, though, and took the book down off its shelf. Holding the book, he made his way through the store, eyes skimming over the volumes’ spines for anything of interest. Two potions-making books caught his attention and he gathered them up with the intention of deciding between them before he returned to the front of the shop. 

Continuing to wander through the aisles, Bard found a few more interesting books so by the time he arrived at the table in the back of the shop he had an armful of books to consider. He set his earlier purchases and the book he intended as a present for Tilda aside before skimming through the other titles; some he decided to keep, and some he decided to leave behind. 

Before he could leave the reading table, a pile of books on the floor by the door to the back room caught his attention. He set his choices by his purchases and stooped down to pick up a few of the titles. 

“Can’t sell ‘em,” the shopkeeper said, startling Bard with his presence. “No one wants to know about the old spells except for historians. Nowadays, everyone’s into new spells and time-and-space savers. And merging Muggle technology with magic, like those comp-you-what’s-its and telly-phones and things like that.” 

Bard smiled and nodded. He ran his fingers over the spine of one of the books, _Lost Languages and Where to Hear Them_ , and wondered how many languages wizards and witches had shared with animals and other magical beings before they fell into disuse. Thinking of Thranduil’s work on translating of old manuscripts, he set the book with his other choices; he thought it would be a good present for Thranduil, who was becoming more of a friend than a colleague as time passed at the castle. 

The shopkeeper saw his interest in the book. “If you want it, I’ll sell it to you for half price,” he offered. 

“I couldn’t do that,” Bard declined. “I’ll pay full---”

“I was going to donate ‘em to the library,” the shopkeeper insisted. “You’d be doing me a favour, giving the book a good home.” 

With a smile and a nod, Bard decided to accept the offer. “Thanks,” he said, “I thought it would be a good present for a friend of mine. He’s quite… studious.” 

“Then it will be a good purchase. Only a hundred were originally printed, and few are seen in circulation today,” he told Bard. 

Bard gathered up the books he’d decided upon and followed the shopkeeper to the front of the store. He paid for his purchases and waited for each book to be packaged in brown wrapping paper. Then, after charming all of his purchases with his wand so they were small enough to fit into his pockets, he tucked them away and left the shop. 

The scent of butterscotch wafted down the main street, sticky and warm, and it made Bard’s mouth water. He smiled as he saw a group of students leaving the local pub, The Three Broomsticks, and guessed the sweet smell was a fresh batch of butterbeer being brewed. Unwilling to resist the pull of nostalgia and the sudden craving for the delicious drink, Bard headed down the street and into the pub; he waved to the server behind the counter, no longer Rosmerta but her niece, and looked around the room for a place to sit. 

By the fireplace at the back of the main room, Bard spied Thranduil sitting and sipping what appeared to be a glass of wine. Smiling a little (and hoping he wouldn’t be turned away) Bard crossed the room and stopped just short of Thranduil’s table. 

“Mind if I join you?”

Thranduil looked away from the fire and, smiling slightly, too, he nodded. After shrugging out of his coat---heavier now because of all of his packages---and hanging it on a nearby hook on the wall, Bard sat down and settled back with a deep breath. 

“Busy day?”

Bard grinned. “Trying to get my Christmas shopping done,” he replied. “I guess I could do it all by owl post, but I like getting a feel for things, holding them, seeing if I can picture the person in mind using it.” 

When Thranduil opened his mouth, a female voice to his side was heard before he could say anything. 

“Can I get you anything, Professor?”

Bard turned his head. The server, a curvaceous woman of around forty years of age with wild ringlets in her hair, was smiling at him. When he smiled back, her cheeks seemed to flush pinker than they’d been earlier. 

“A butterbeer, please, miss,” he said. 

She giggled at being called ‘miss,’ and promised to get his drink after insisting he use her name, which was Rosamund. As she hurried away, her skirts swishing, Bard caught sight of Thranduil rolling his eyes. 

“What?” he asked. 

“She’s your type?”

Bard chuckled. “Not even close,” he replied. “I prefer someone a little less… obvious.” 

“She prefers you.” 

“Well, great, but, no, thank you,” Bard said quietly. “Still, a bit of flirting’s nice. Makes me feel a little younger than I usually feel.” 

Thranduil snorted. “Yes, you’re so old and gnarled. Rusting around the edges, too.” 

Bard grinned. “Just like my car, huh?”

“I didn’t say that, you did,” Thranduil replied, a smile creeping back into his usually-stern expression. He set down his glass of red wine. “So, you like flirting with barmaids and are a hands-on shopper. You have a meandering dragon tattoo and like beer and fixing old heaps of junk. What else should I know about you?”

“That’s about it.” 

“Oh, and the birds. For some reason, birds like you.” 

Bard gave him another grin. “I’m a likeable guy,” he replied. “Sounds like you’ve got me figured out.” 

“I doubt that,” Thranduil said. 

Before he could insist that he was a what-you-see-is-what-you-get sort of person, Rosamund returned with his glass mug of butterbeer and a plate of biscuits. “Here you are, Professor,” she said, setting both dishes onto the table. “I put together a platter of treats for you, in case you’re feeling peckish.” 

“Thank you, Rosamund,” Bard replied. “They look delicious.” 

She left them with a nod and a few little giggles. Thranduil rolled his eyes at her back and Bard chuckled at Thranduil’s antics. Both men picked up a cookie, bit into their choice, and promptly put the cookies back onto the plate. 

“They may look it but they don’t taste delicious,” Thranduil muttered. He chased his aborted bite with a sip of his wine. “That woman may be able to continue her aunt’s delicious tradition of brewing, but she cannot bake like Rosmerta could.” 

Agreeing with Thranduil’s assessment, because the cookie was awful, not sweet and chewy but nearly bitter as it crumbled, Bard nodded and picked up his tankard of butterbeer. He sipped slowly, savouring the sugary tasting foam, and when he pulled away, he was grinning. 

“Just like I remember,” he murmured. “Thank goodness.” 

Thranduil smiled and gestured towards his lips. Bard brought a hand up to his mouth and wiped his moustache. A light amount of froth came away with the touch. He shrugged. “It’s worth the mess,” he decided. “I smelled it from the other end of the street and remembered all the days we had the drink when I was a student.” 

“You haven’t been here since then?”

“Haven’t been on this side of the Atlantic for years,” Bard replied. “We were living in the Wizarding community in Ottawa for years. The beavertails are delicious, but they couldn’t make butterbeer as good as in The Three Broomsticks.” 

“Beavertails?”

“A pastry. It’s like a flat oval, stretched out and fried,” Bard explained. “It’s topped with butter and then anything sweet you can imagine. The traditional ones usually have cinnamon or maple syrup on them.”

“Ah. Sounds… messy.” 

“A perfect end to a day spent skating on the Canal, though,” Bard said, laughter sneaking into his voice as he remembered the wintery weekends in the centre of the city with his children. 

Thranduil’s head tilted to one side as he studied Bard. “You have good memories of your time in that place, despite your reasons for moving there,” he remarked. “Do you regret---”

“No, never,” Bard said quickly, cutting off Thranduil’s question. “I wish… well, I wish we could’ve all made it, obviously, but I did what was best for my kids. We both did. I’ll never regret keeping them safe.” 

Bard watched him nod and turn his head to look at the fire. Thranduil looked a little sad and Bard didn’t like seeing that emotion take over his features. He tried to think of something to say, something to distract Thranduil from whatever thoughts he was entertaining, but before he could, Thranduil started to speak again. 

“I regret not fighting back, but I was---”

“You fought back,” Bard insisted, cutting off his words. Thranduil turned and blinked at him. He felt his face heat up under the return of that sharp scrutiny in Thranduil’s grey eyes. “I, um… Minerva told me. What you did, I mean. Wards and secret places, keeping people safe.” 

“Of course she told you,” Thranduil muttered under his breath. 

“It was brave, what you did,” Bard continued. “And smart, but mostly brave. So many things could’ve gone wrong and you’d have been caught.” 

“It was all I could do.” 

Bard smiled. “It was more than enough. You kept people safe.” 

“Well… yes. I suppose.” 

“Are you always so hard on yourself?” Bard asked. 

Thranduil sniffed. “Sometimes, yes.” 

“Then I’ll add that to my list of things I know about you,” Bard said, a teasing tone creeping into his voice. “Sharp dresser, intimidating professor, friend to nature, and protector to muggleborns. And now, incredibly hard on himself.” 

“Ugh, stop,” Thranduil protested. “There’s more to me than that.” 

Picking up his butterbeer, Bard grinned at his colleague over the top of the foamy drink. “I know,” he said, “and I’m looking forward to learning as much as I can.” 

The tips of Thranduil’s ears turned pink as his eyes widened and Bard felt a sharp thrill as he realised he liked the way Thranduil seemed a little affected by Bard’s words and that he wanted to see that expression on Thranduil’s face more often. He tried to turn his attention to the enjoyment of his drink, but part of his mind had catalogued that moment and seemed fixed on processing it, over and over, so that by the time they returned to the castle with all the students he felt as if he were in a daze. His only hope, as he returned to his quarters, was that no one else had noticed how distracted he’d become.


	5. Chapter 5

November continued the trend October had started and before Bard knew it, it was December and then it was the end of the first term. Only a few students from each house decided to stay for the holiday break, so the castle was fairly calm and quiet. As for the staff, the Heads of House had all stayed and some of the others stayed, too, Bard included. After checking with his children, and learning that they actually wanted to stay at the school, he made the decision and let Minerva know he’d be available for evening sweeps of the castle if necessary. 

The school at Christmas was a beautiful sight. Candles, trees, wreaths, ribbons, and baubles were everywhere, thanks to the efforts of Sam and Hagrid, and the castle seemed to glitter everywhere one walked. Besides the sights, there was a constant smell of sweet spices, as if the kitchens were producing puddings and cider all day, every day, and Bard blamed the scents for his nearly-constant snacking. 

He’d wrapped the presents for his children and put them under a tree in his quarters. The presents for staff, he’d planned to have delivered by house elves on Christmas Eve. Thranduil’s present, the book about languages, was wrapped, too, though Bard was hanging onto it so he could give it to him in person. 

Ever since their time together at The Three Broomsticks, Bard felt the push and pull of uncertainty and curiosity. He’d already been curious about Thranduil, yes, but since that conversation, he wanted to learn everything he could about Thranduil, from Thranduil; however, at the same time, he didn’t know where the boundaries in their friendship lay. 

At least he knew it was a friendship, at least. Since that day in Hogsmeade, Thranduil started seeking him out more. They sat together regularly at meals and staff meetings; they walked and talked together while doing their nightly patrols of the corridors. Bard was learning that Thranduil had a sense of humour behind the frown he showed his students, and he delighted in the times when Thranduil made him laugh---and, even more, he delighted in the times when he could make Thranduil laugh. 

Thranduil had stopped glaring when Bard’s tattoo made an appearance. He hadn’t stopped staring at the mess of Bard’s hands when he came back inside the castle after an evening of tinkering with his project car, but the tattoo didn’t seem to bother him anymore, so Bard considered that some sort of progress, too. 

When the howler from his parents---and how on earth they got their hands on one of those, Bard could not imagine---arrived at the breakfast table, in front of the remaining staff and students, howling at him for not making plans to come visit and declaring that if he doesn’t bring his children by to visit them and Mattie’s parents on the twenty-third there will be hell to pay, before exploding into angry confetti, Thranduil was the one that sought him out later, to ensure that he was all right. He was also the one who promised a strong drink when Bard returned from his family’s gathering. 

Bard tried to remind himself that it was a friendly proposal, and nothing more, but he couldn’t help his nerves. He felt like a kid with a crush, the more he thought about Thranduil’s offer. 

Despite any nervousness the offer induced, the idea of spending some time with Thranduil after the time with his family was the only thing that got him onto the Knight Bus with his children. That made him feel guilty, but he knew there was a strong chance evening would go poorly so he was not looking forward to it. Luckily, his children seemed to be eager to go, so that, too, helped him through the journey. 

As he expected, his parents and Mattie’s parents had been cross with him, but by the end of the night, his mother pulled him aside, kissed his cheek, and wished him a happy Christmas. It seemed like they’d be able to repair their relationship and he was glad for that.

In the end, he’d been glad he went to see them, but the stress of the event left him feeling off-balance and emotionally drained. Bain and Tilda had been oblivious to his mixed feelings about the reunion and, as Bard expected, Sigrid sensed something was wrong and asked him about it. He’d managed to tell her he was fine, just overwhelmed by the event, and he thought she believed him; however, when Thranduil showed up at the door to his quarters less than an hour later, he suspected his words hadn’t been as convincing as he thought they’d been. 

“I saw your daughter,” Thranduil explained as he stepped into Bard’s living area. He held up the bottle of scotch he’d been carrying. “I thought I should bring the night-cap to you.” 

Bard smiled. “Thanks. I meant to find you, but I…” 

“I thought Gryffindors were known for their bravery.” 

He chuckled. “Aye, but even Gryffindors need a minute or thirty to recover.” 

“Disappointing,” Thranduil said, a teasing tone in his voice (that Bard was sure he was imagining). 

Bard knew he was blushing at the turn his thoughts had taken but before he could turn away Thranduil was putting a wrapped parcel in his arms. Thranduil told him to set it aside and open it on Christmas Day, and Bard did as he was told, placing it under the tree with his children’s presents, while Thranduil produced two glasses with a wave of his wand. 

“I have glasses, you know,” Bard commented. 

“Not shaped like this, I bet,” Thranduil said, running a finger along the bell-like shape of one of the glasses. “These are for tasting scotch… not drinking lager.” 

After a chuckle Bard joined Thranduil on the chesterfield in front of the fireplace. Thranduil poured them each a drink and Bard took his glass with a murmur of gratitude. 

He was able to sip twice before Thranduil asked him how the dinner went. 

“As expected. Mattie’s parents were furious, my parents were furious... but I think Mum melted a bit near the end when I apologised,” Bard said. “And they were all thrilled to see the kids. And the kids were thrilled to see them. Tilda’s never met any of them---when she was a baby, they saw her, but she wouldn’t remember that---so she was a little shy, but once the presents came out...” 

“How are you?” Thranduil asked, as soon as Bard trailed off into silence. 

“Fine.” 

Thranduil snorted. 

Bard shrugged. “Well, I will be,” he said, amending his previous statement. “It’s all fine, really. I deserve their anger, keeping their grandchildren from them for so long---”

“You do not,” Thranduil interrupted. When Bard blinked at him, Thranduil continued talking. “You did the only thing you could to keep them safe. You gave them a home and helped them heal. Coming back had to have been difficult, because of the memories, and if they can’t understand that---” he broke off and shook his head. Then, he smiled a bit. “Don’t think you deserve their anger. You did what was necessary.” 

“I could’ve brought them by once we’d come back,” Bard said. 

Thranduil shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, well, I wouldn’t be keen on a scolding, either, so I can understand putting off that reunion.” 

Bard smiled back at him and relaxed. He felt more at ease than since before the Howler arrived and he wanted to thank Thranduil for his efforts; however, he couldn’t put the words together when he looked at Thranduil. He stayed silent and hoped Thranduil knew he appreciated him. 

“You should know, in your absence,” Thranduil said, interrupting the quietude, “some of the students tried to get into your makeshift garage.” When Bard looked up, surprised and concerned, Thranduil added, “I caught them when I was on my way back from the forest and before they could unlock the door. Your jalopy is safe.” 

Before Bard could thank him, Thranduil smirked and said, “Don’t thank me. I’ve been looking forward to giving Dís and her merry band of goons demerits since the term started. She’s been very careful and I’m glad I was the one who caught her.” 

“What’s with you guys, anyway?” Bard asked. 

Thranduil’s smirk faded into an angrier expression. “Her brother is despicable,” he growled. “He did some things during the war I cannot forgive.” 

“It’s not good to hang onto old resentments,” Bard said. 

“He betrayed me to the Ministry, near the end. Punishment for not taking him and his family in, I suppose, but they’re purebloods and were well-connected to those in power at the time so I had no reason to believe they were in real trouble,” Thranduil explained after swallowing a mouthful of scotch. “I assumed he was trying to catch me, trying to cause trouble for those under my protection.” 

Bard nodded. “Did… did the Death Eaters come looking?”

“Of course. That’s how I learned he was their informant. Snatchers descended on my property at their direction, going through every inch of the place in what they thought to be a thorough search,” Thranduil replied. 

“But, they didn’t find anyone.” 

Thranduil’s smirk returned. “Nope,” he said, shaking his head slightly. 

“Your illusion and warding skills must be…” 

“Perfect. Yes, they are.” 

Bard chuckled at Thranduil’s lack of modesty. Thranduil grinned when Bard showed his amusement, and a moment later, they were sharing in the laughter. 

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Bard exclaimed, remembering the present he’d wrapped for Thranduil. He bounced off of the cushions and headed for his room. He opened his chest with the password and a wave of his wand; he retrieved the present and returned to the sitting room. “Here,” he said as he set the present on Thranduil’s lap, “Happy Christmas, Prof---”

“I think you can use my first name now, don’t you?” Thranduil interrupted, trying to look stern despite the flush of pink in his cheeks. When Bard didn’t say anything, because he was too surprised that he was being given permission, Thranduil frowned. “I mean, unless you---”

“No, no, I just… I… that’s good. And mutual,” Bard managed to say. He sat down again and tried to cover his delight with a sip of scotch. “So… yeah. All right. Good,” he mumbled. “Just, save it for the twenty-fifth. And if you already have one, well, tell me and---”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Thranduil assured him. “Stop fussing.” 

“Can’t help it.” 

Thranduil chuckled. “I know,” he commented teasingly. “It’s easy to tell when you get worked up. Who knew the use of my name would be too much for you.” 

“It is not!” Bard insisted. “I just assumed you preferred professionalism and a certain amount of decorum, and---”

“Not among friends,” Thranduil murmured. 

Whatever else Bard was about to say was lost to Thranduil’s soft (but strong) statement. He smiled and nodded, hoping Thranduil knew Bard counted him as a friend, too; he reached for the bottle of scotch, an old and expensive vintage if Bard’s limited knowledge about the liquor was correct, and he poured them both another small amount to drink. 

On their third glass, they started sharing teaching stories and laughing loudly, Bard’s evening with his parents and in-laws nearly forgotten in Thranduil’s company. Thranduil was telling him about one of his first classes, ever, when Cado slinked into the room. He stopped talking and watched the otter, who climbed up into Bard’s lap and curled his body up into a warm, fluffy ball. 

“The marauder returns,” Thranduil muttered. 

On a little laugh, Bard rubbed behind Cado’s ears. “I think we woke him. He’s been spending time with me lately,” he explained. “He usually stays with Tilda, but since the holiday started, he’s been down here a lot more.” 

“He’s been in Ravenclaw, too,” Thranduil said. “I’ve caught him in the common room more than once.”

“He hasn’t destroyed any of your books lately, has he?”

Thranduil smiled and shook his head. “No, but then, I set up a protection spell on my work area after the first time he came to visit, so I don’t mind it any more.” 

“He visits you?”

When Thranduil nodded, Bard looked down at the otter and smiled. He brushed a finger over Cado’s nose. “Menace,” he murmured affectionately, “you are always getting into places you don’t belong.” 

With a soft chirrup, Cado slipped from Bard’s thighs and settled into Thranduil’s lap. Thranduil looked pleased as he stroked his fingers over Cado’s back. The otter made a little purring sound and scrunched his face up as Thranduil brushed his fur. They looked very comfortable with each other and the sight struck Bard as strange since Thranduil had been so furious the first time Cado intruded on his personal space. 

“You’re feeding him.”

Thranduil looked up at Bard and frowned. “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.” 

His protest lacked conviction and didn’t ring true. Bard grinned as he realised Thranduil had softened to the otter’s visits; Thranduil continued to protest but the more he did, the more Bard’s grin widened. Eventually, Bard tipped his head back and laughed, visions of Thranduil and Cado cuddling up to read a book together while Thranduil fed him bits of fish or vegetables suddenly in his mind. 

“You warded your desk so when he visits he doesn’t destroy everything,” Bard said, between cackles of amusement. “Cado visits you and you like it!” 

“Oh, shush,” Thranduil muttered. 

Still laughing, Bard asked, “Weren’t you supposed to turn him into a doormat if he ever showed up again?” 

“I… well, he’s not bad company when he’s not destroying everything in his path,” Thranduil admitted. 

As more laughter escaped him, Bard snorted and leaned forward. He laughed until tears were leaking from his eyes. Wiping his face, he saw Thranduil smiling at him in a way he’d never seen before; his laughter slowly faded until he was left grinning back at Thranduil. 

“Have you finished?” 

“Maybe,” Bard replied, not sure if the idea of Cado and Thranduil had been fully processed yet. 

Thranduil sniffed and continued to stroke Cado’s head and back. He murmured something to the otter that sounded suspiciously like “You’re always welcome if Bard gets on your nerves” but Bard couldn’t make it out clearly. Deciding to leave Thranduil and Cado to their moment, he leaned back into the chesterfield’s cushions and watched the flames dance in the fireplace. 

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Thranduil asked, his voice soft and nearly a whisper. 

“Some work on the car,” Bard replied, “and dinner here, with the kids.” Turning his gaze back to Thranduil, he smiled. “How about you?”

“Taking Legolas to his mother,” Thranduil said. “He’s spending the rest of the holiday with her.” 

“Why don’t you and Tauriel join us when you return?” Bard suggested. 

Shaking his head, Thranduil sighed. “I couldn’t impose---”

Bard cut off his declination. “You wouldn’t be. Tilda and Tauriel get along, and… you’re both welcome here,” he said. “Just keep it in mind, all right? It’s not a fancy thing. We’ll just be sitting around eating whatever I cook and listening to music or something like that. Even if you want to come by after, you’d be welcome.” 

Thranduil smiled. “I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you,” he said with a slight tip of his head 

Their evening together ended shortly after that. They poured out another drink, but Bard yawned and Thranduil decided he’d stayed too long. After easing Cado off of his lap and re-corking the bottle of scotch, Thranduil stood up and waved his wand. The glasses disappeared but the scotch remained. He picked up his present and brushed his fingers over its brightly-coloured wrappings. 

“Thank you, for this,” Thranduil murmured. 

“Thank you for your present, too,” Bard replied. “Merry Christmas.” 

“Happy Christmas, Bard,” Thranduil said, smiling. “I’ll see you later.” 

After following him to the door, Bard wished him a good-night and watched him leave Bard’s quarters. He turned around to see Cado sniffing the bottle of scotch and he thought about going after Thranduil to return it, but thought twice about that when he realised he’d have a reason to see Thranduil again over the next couple of days---even if it was only to return the bottle. 

Making his way back to the chesterfield, he took the bottle and set it on the mantle. He knew Cado could get up there if he really wanted to, but he hoped moving it out of the otter’s way would curb his curiosity. When he settled back down, he smiled as Cado scrambled into his lap again. 

Even as he told himself he should get up and go to bed, he stretched out his legs along the rest of the cushions and tipped his head back against the arm of the chesterfield. Cado was a comfortable weight on his torso and the fire provided enough warmth to make him sleepy. After all of the activity (and emotional stress) of the day, he felt exhaustion seeping into his mind and body; he drifted off, thinking of the stories and information Thranduil had shared with him, a little smile curving his lips.

&&&

The next time Bard saw Thranduil was on Christmas Day. He hadn’t come by for dinner the previous day, but Bard hadn’t been too disappointed. After unwrapping his present that morning, though, Bard looked for him to thank him, but could not find him in any of his usual haunts; when he finally saw Thranduil outside the Great Hall, about to join everyone for the holiday meal, Bard felt the urgency to show his gratitude return and he impulsively hugged him.

“I… Bard?”

“Thank you for the present,” he said as he eased away from Thranduil. “My favourite porter from my favourite microbrewery. How did you put that together?”

As Bard spoke, Thranduil’s ears turned pink. “I guessed,” he admitted. 

“A brilliant guess,” Bard said, grinning. “I don’t know how you got it here from Ottawa, but I really appreciate the effort.” 

“It was nothing,” Thranduil insisted. When Bard chuckled, he added, “You’re welcome.” 

Hoping to hear something about his own present, Bard lingered in the doorway. When Thranduil didn’t say anything, Bard started to ask about the book, but Tilda was shouting at him; Thranduil excused himself, saying something about finding Tauriel, as Tilda launched herself at Bard’s waist. 

“Hey, you,” Bard murmured, looking down at her. “What’s up?”

“You weren’t coming in!” 

“I was just talking to Professor Oropherion,” he said. “Did you save me a seat?”

Tilda nodded and took his hand, tugging him into the hall. He found himself seated between Minerva and Bain. Sigrid was next to Bain and Tilda was next to Minerva. Thranduil and Tauriel were on the other side of the table, surrounded by other members of the staff. Students and professors sat together all the way down the long table. The collective cheerful mood of the group was enhanced by the delicious food and drinks provided by the house elves; Bard watched his children dig into everything on their plates with enthusiasm and he grinned before turning to his own meal. 

Seeing his children so happy warmed his heart. He knew he’d made the right decision, accepting the position at Hogwarts, but any time he saw them with their new friends or heard them laughing, he felt that realisation all over again. It might have been that they were finally home or that Hogwarts’ own magic had healing properties to it; he didn’t know and he didn’t care to know, either. They were happy and he was happy. He had a social network, support he hadn’t had when he was working at the apothecary shop in the Wizarding side of Byward Market, and he looked forward to what the future would bring. His attitude had changed and he was appreciative of that change. It was such an improvement to pushing himself forward, to enduring, to making the best of a situation. 

Before pudding, the crackers came out and soon the table was covered in chess pieces, candies, Exploding Snap cards, and little white mice. Everyone was putting on their cracker hats---even Minerva---and when his children prompted him, he did the same. With his stocking cap on his head, he grinned at Tilda, who was wearing a little tiara that slid sideways on her head as she leaned over the table; a moment later he caught sight of Thranduil and the grin disappeared as he found himself staring in wonder. 

Thranduil’s crown from his cracker was made of little branches and berries. It was an intricate construction, branches of what appeared to be birch all twisted together so that their tops extended out above his head. Holly leaves and their red berries were around the base of the crown, a colourful contrast to his blond hair. He looked imperious and beautiful and Bard had to tear his eyes away from the sight of him so he didn’t make a fool of himself by saying something embarrassing---and probably startling. 

“A toast,” Minerva said, shaking Bard from his thoughts and pulling his focus from his empty plate. He looked up and saw she’d raised her goblet of wine. “Thank you all for staying and making this holiday such an enjoyable one. Hogwarts is more than the castle itself, and I am honoured to share this place with you.” 

Raising her glass of mead, Pomona cheered, “Here, here!” 

Everyone followed suit, sharing wishes of good tidings and agreement, and as they set their glasses back upon the table dessert arrived. Pies and cakes and pudding lined the centre of the table; the children gasped and groaned, diving for the treats, and the adults followed with a little more decorum. 

The desserts were delicious and they ate their fill. Some even ate more than their fill, but Poppy was ready for them and had stomach ache solution waiting for anyone who complained after eating too much. Slowly, one by one, the older students wandered off and then parents and guardians started leaving with their younger charges. Thranduil stood with a sleepy and full Tauriel toddling beside him, waiting until he smiled at Bard and thanked Minerva for organising such a lovely event before ushering her from the hall. 

“You two seem to be getting along,” Minerva commented quietly. 

“Yeah,” Bard replied. He smiled and shrugged. “Well, I think so, anyway.” 

She smiled back at him. “I’m glad. He’s the independent sort.” She sighed and squeezed Bard’s arm. “He reminds me of someone… someone from before. And I didn’t do enough to help him, so I sometimes worry I’m failing Thranduil, too.” 

“I’m sure you’re doing your best,” Bard said quietly. He put his hand over hers. “You always do.” 

“And you? Have I done all right by you?”

With a nod and another smile, Bard replied: “You convinced me to stay. My children seem happy here and I love teaching, cauldron explosions and all.” 

Minerva chuckled. “Good good,” she murmured. “Now, you take your children home and enjoy the rest of your evening together.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Shush.” 

He squeezed her hand again before slipping away to round up his children. Sigrid and Bain had been arguing about Quidditch teams, of all things, and Bard carried a drowsy Tilda as he listened to them continue their debate for the duration of the walk from the Great Hall to their quarters. 

It didn’t take long for them to go to bed. Tilda had been first, requesting that Bard tuck her in like he used to; while he was with her, Sigrid and Bain prepared for sleep. He wished them all a good night and went out to the living room to relax by the fire. He found Cado on the chesterfield and joined the sleeping menace; but he didn’t get to stay there for long because a knock to his door interrupted his quiet time. 

Opening the door revealed Thranduil, still wearing his crown and robes from the feast. He was shifting from one foot to the other, seemingly agitated. Bard wondered what was wrong, what could possibly be bothering him, but he tried to wait for Thranduil to speak first. 

When it became clear that Thranduil was struggling to talk, Bard stepped back and invited him inside with a gesture. Thranduil stepped through the doorway, walking past Bard before he turned back and hugged Bard without warning. 

“I… hey, um… Thran? What’s this about?” 

Putting space between them quickly, Thranduil flushed. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

“For…?”

“The book!” Thranduil replied. “I just opened it. It’s such a rare volume and the subject matter isn’t often discussed. I didn’t mean to wait but I wasn’t sure what to expect and the whole thing made me…” 

“Dread unwrapping it?”

“Nervous,” Thranduil admitted. 

Warmth settled in Bard’s chest at Thranduil’s response. He smiled. “I’m glad it all worked out,” he said quietly. “You want to come in and have a drink?”

Thranduil shook his head. “Not tonight,” he declined, “but definitely another time.” 

“Sounds good.” 

“Really, Bard. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” he said as Thranduil slipped past him and back into the hallway. 

Once the door was shut, Bard felt himself grinning. There was an excited flutter in his chest, along with the warmth that Thranduil’s brief appearance had inspired. He felt hopeful and optimistic where his friendship with Thranduil was concerned; he didn’t know what would come of their relationship, but despite a bit of mystery and confusion, the results to date had been positive. 

The grin was hard to shake as he went through his nightly rituals. It lingered on his face in the traces of a smile, even after he started drifting off to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

“Professor Bowdyn?” 

Looking up from the potion he was stirring, Bard saw Legolas standing in the doorway to his office. He smiled and motioned Legolas into the room with a wave of his free hand. It looked like there was something on Legolas’ mind, though Bard didn’t have the faintest idea as to what it could be; he was Horace’s student, as a sixth year, and apart from the odd encounter when shadowing Minerva on her Head of House duties Bard had no interaction with him. 

“What can I do for you, Mister Oropherion?” Bard asked. 

“You’re busy, I’ll---”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Bard said, making sure his voice was low and calm in case it was a serious problem. “This is almost finished and it’s hardly volatile. Just making the base for a bruise paste,” he added to explain what he was doing. 

Legolas nodded and smiled a bit. He inched into the room, adjusting his robes self-consciously as he made his way to the work table. 

“How are your classes going?” Bard asked. 

With a stiff shrug, Legolas sat on the stool in front of the table. He tugged his bag into his lap. It was only after a bit more fidgeting that he replied to Bard’s inquiry. 

“All right, I guess. That’s… that’s kind of why I’m here,” he said. 

“Need help with an assignment in Potions?” Bard guessed. 

“Ah… well, sort of?” Legolas said, shrugging again, though looking more sheepish than stiff. “I barely passed my OWL in Potions. Slughorn took me on for my sixth year in spite of that. I suspect my father might have convinced…” he trailed off as a frown took over his facial expression. “Anyway, NEWTs aren’t until next year, and I don’t even know what I want to do after Hogwarts, but I still need to pass this year’s class. I guess… I’m hoping, well, since your methods are a bit different, maybe a different approach would help? If you don’t mind, that is.” 

If Legolas was anything like Thranduil in temperament, Bard knew that asking for help would have been a very difficult thing to do. Even if he wasn’t, it was still challenging to ask for help, so Bard made sure to school his facial expression into one of calm seriousness; he wanted to help him, no matter who his father was, because Legolas recognised he had a problem and went to someone well before the problem became unmanageable. 

“I don’t mind,” Bard said. “When do you have free time?”

Legolas’ body seemed to melt at Bard’s response. “I have classes until supper and Quidditch practice on Wednesdays and Saturdays, but Aragorn said I could miss some as long as I practiced on my own.” 

“You’re the seeker, right?” Bard asked. 

Legolas nodded, smiling more. “Yeah…” 

“Gryffindor’s never lost a game all year, you must be good.” 

“I caught the snitch in every game. Except the first one, but we had so many points it didn’t matter. The game ended, and we still won.” 

Bard grinned. “You’re the team to beat.” 

“So far.” 

The potion released a light yellow gas as Bard’s stirring came to an end. Bard picked up a glass cauldron---something he never would have bought for himself, but since the school had several for the Potions professors to use, he decided to take advantage of its existence---and set it next to the iron one over the low flame. He would need it to mix the base with the medicinal ingredients, and that mixing had to happen within three hours of the base giving off that yellow vapour for the paste to be an effective one. 

“Can you do me a favour, Mister Oropherion?” Bard asked. 

Legolas nodded. “Sure.” 

“Could you go into the supplies cupboard next door and find the ingredients I’ll need for the second part?” 

“Um…” 

“I’ll give you the list,” Bard said. 

A smile broke out on Legolas’ face. He nodded again and took the notebook Bard offered him. He hurried out of the office, to the pantry, and Bard started preparing for the next bit of mixing he’d have to do. After cleaning his knives and stirring tools, he dried them all and set them by a clean chopping board; then, he went to his desk and found his dragonhide gloves, setting them by the rest of his equipment. When he was ready to work, he only had to wait a few minutes for Legolas to return, his arms full of the jars and bottles of required ingredients. 

“I couldn’t find the beetle wings but---”

Bard held up the small bottle of wing components. Legolas smiled and relaxed. As he set down the ingredients, Bard organised them in the order he’d need them, so when Legolas stepped back Bard was ready to work. 

“So, when do you want to start?” Bard asked him. 

“As soon as possible. I… I have a final project in mind and I’d like to… do better than just passing it.” 

With a nod, Bard poured some of the juice from the jar of stewed dittany leaves into the glass cauldron. He sprinkled the beetle wings on top---no more than a pinch to start---and then stirred those ingredients together. He thought about his own schedule as he worked. He and his children met every Thursday for a meal together, he had classes most mornings and every Wednesday afternoon, and he liked to keep his evenings free for doing his grading and for other administrative work. His free afternoons were for grading, too, he supposed, but he preferred to go to the carriage house during those times, as it wasn’t likely he’d miss anything important with the students and staff continuing with their scheduled classes. He could afford to willingly give Legolas a few hours every weekend if Legolas could spare the time, as long as it didn’t cut into Sunday tea with his children. 

When he suggested Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings, Legolas accepted the Saturday afternoons as the best bet---especially if it was after two o’clock, because then he’d be able to fit in Quidditch practice as well as a shower. Bard agreed---especially with the shower, because he remembered how his own gear reeked after hours of intense practice and he had no desire to be in a room with the smell again, if he could avoid it. They made plans to meet on the next Saturday. 

“Bring your supplies and book,” Bard told him as he tugged on his dragonhide gloves. “We’ll go over what your final project is set to be, and we’ll make a plan for getting it done. Then, we’ll go from there.” 

He picked up the still-hot iron cauldron and moved it off of the fire. Then, he put the glass cauldron on the stand over the little flame; after enlarging the flame with a little wand flourish, he stirred the powdered ingredients into the second part of the potion. 

Legolas cleared his throat. “Thank you, Professor Bowdyn. I’ll see you Saturday afternoon, then.” 

“Have a good week, Mister Oropherion,” Bard said. He looked up from his work to give Legolas a smile. 

“Thanks… you, too,” Legolas said before he slipped away from the worktable and out of the room.

&&&&&

It turned out Legolas wasn’t awful at brewing potions, but the mistakes he made were rather catastrophic in nature and would ruin any progress of a particular recipe. Bard understood how disheartening that could be; after a couple of weekend meetings, he had a plan to slowly build Legolas’ confidence by teaching him some of the same things he taught his classes. He hoped that by teaching Legolas the properties of certain ingredients and their reactions with others Legolas would know enough to avoid some of the worst of the accidents he tended to create.

Through the end of winter and into the beginning of spring, they continued to meet every Saturday afternoon. Bard taught Legolas what he knew and watched as Legolas’ skill improved. He found the process encouraging; he enjoyed watching Legolas become more at ease over a cauldron, and as his potions project became a reality, Bard felt proud of Legolas for accomplishing so much improvement in such a short time. 

In all the time they spent together through the term, Thranduil never asked about Legolas’ progress; Bard assumed Legolas had not told Thranduil about the extra lessons so he kept his mouth shut on the subject when he and Thranduil were together. It was difficult, because he wanted to share the pride he felt in Legolas’ improvements, but he didn’t want to embarrass Legolas or draw unwanted attention to what he may have perceived to be failings in his father’s eyes. Bard felt torn about keeping that secret, but he believed he was doing the right thing by remaining silent on the subject. 

The truth, though, had a way of coming to the surface on its own and after a rough week of classes and detentions and other activities, Bard’s decision to keep quiet no longer mattered. 

He told Legolas to add the bubotuber pus to the concoction and only realised a moment before Legolas did as instructed that they’d already added the willow wisps but hadn’t added the unicorn hair and---

Bard had a second to react. He pulled Legolas down to the ground, shielding him with his body, and waited for what he knew would happen. 

_**BOOM!** _

Legolas cringed. Bard lifted off of Legolas’ body and looked him over. “Are you all right?” he asked. 

“I… I think so.” 

“Good.” 

Bard eased up into a standing position. He pulled his wand out and waved it over the flames on the table. He’d barely extinguished them before he was pulled down and patted with what he discovered were Legolas’ outer robes. 

“What---”

“You’re on fire,” Legolas muttered. “Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” he added as he continued to smother the fire that was apparently on Bard’s back. “We need to get you to the hospital wing.” 

“It’s fine, these things happen,” Bard said. “I’ve been through worse.” 

Legolas frowned. “Now. Please.” 

Bard was going to protest, but he sat up and felt the skin on his back throb in painful pulses as it was stretched, as the adrenaline faded away. He winced and nodded; he took the hand Legolas offered him and slowly stood up. 

Legolas looked more upset than Bard had ever seen him during their meetings. Bard wanted to comfort him, but he didn’t think the attempt would be welcome (or appreciated), so he took his wand from Legolas’ hand and waved it over the table. Broken bits of cauldron were gathered in a pile; ruined ingredients stopped smoking and moved into the bin Bard kept on hand for the scraps. He made a mental note to send word to Sam or Hagrid that he’d need to have the worktable resurfaced. 

“Almost as good as new,” Bard said to Legolas. 

“I could have---”

“It was as much my fault as yours,” Bard interrupted him. “I forgot we’d already added the willow wisps without the unicorn hair. Dangerous to combine willow wisps with the pus before stablising it.” He tried to smile a bit through the pain he was feeling more strongly with every minute that passed. “Madam Pomfrey will have me fixed up in no time, so please stop looking at me like that.” 

Legolas nodded, though the guilty expression didn’t fade much from his face, and he helped Bard to the other side of his office. Once he put some Floo Powder into the fire, he called out for the Hospital Wing, waited a moment, and helped Bard through the hearth. They landed on the floor of the Hospital Wing, coughing. Bard cursed under his breath with each cough. He’d hoped to arrive in a bit more dignified manner, but he hadn’t been feeling the steadiest and travelling by floo could be disorientating. 

“Oh! What in Merlin’s name did you two---” Poppy stopped mid-sentence before shouting for Hannah. Then, she turned to her patients. “Bard? What happened?”

“My cauldron exploded, Madam Pomfrey,” Legolas told her, before Bard could catch his breath to say anything. “Professor Bowdyn’s back caught some of the damage.”

“Hannah,” Poppy said to her apprentice as she appeared, “help me get Bard onto a bed and then you check Legolas over. He’s going to protest, but you check him. Head, hands---”

“His back, too,” Bard interrupted, wincing as Poppy and Hannah helped him to a standing position. “I knocked him down pretty hard to get him out of the way.” 

“I’ll check him over,” Hannah said. “Just let Madam Pomfrey take care of those burns.” 

Bard settled on a bed with little fuss. He watched Hannah fight with Legolas for a minute before Legolas yielded and allowed Hannah to check his eyes and skull for damage. Poppy moved into Bard’s line of sight, a jar of orange burn salve in her hands. She waved her wand and the remains of Bard’s shirt vanished from his body. 

“This may sting,” Poppy said. 

“I know,” Bard told her, smiling. “This isn’t my first cauldron explosion.” 

She smiled as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She worked quickly but gently, only stopping when Bard’s back was coated in the thick orange paste. The pain he’d been feeling was gone under the cooling salve’s properties; despite the fuss, he was glad Legolas brought him to Poppy for care because it would have taken him a lot longer to get the paste smeared over his burns. 

“They’re hardly deep,” Poppy said. “Seems Legolas extinguished the flames before too much damage could be done.” 

“He was pretty quick,” Bard agreed. “How is he doing?” 

“Fine,” Poppy replied, after looking over her shoulder. “Distraught, but he always feels things so deeply. He’s a sensitive soul, that one,” she murmured. “He’ll be fine. Looks like there’s just a bruise or two that needs healing.” 

Feeling relieved, Bard sighed. “Good,” he whispered. 

“Do you want me to call for your children?” she asked. 

He shook his head. Sigrid would worry, Bain hated hospitals, and Tilda would… well, he didn’t know what she would do, but he knew he didn’t need his children around while a relatively minor burn healed. He could tell them all about it when they got together for tea the next day, when there was no need to fret or worry about his well-being. 

“They’d want to know.” 

“I’ll tell them tomorrow,” Bard said. “I promise. There’s no need for them to be here, I’m fine.” 

“And I guess asking you to stay the night for obs---”

“Will not happen.”

Rising to her feet, Poppy sniffed. Bard smiled at her as best as he could in his current position. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Once this salve does its job, anyway.” 

The doors to the Hospital Wing opened in a loud crash. Bard saw Legolas jump, and then he saw Thranduil make his way over to his son in a flurry of robes and hair. 

“What did you do?” Thranduil asked Legolas. “I was looking everywhere for you when your charm lit up! I thought you were in your common room, but Aragorn told me you were having extra Potions lessons! Horace knew nothing about this, so I---”

“Ada… I was with Professor Bowdyn,” Legolas interrupted, sounding tense but soft. His shoulders had been tense, raised up a little, but before he spoke again, they dropped down, as if in defeat. “It wasn’t his fault. I screwed up again. I made the cauldron explode.” 

Thranduil turned and saw Bard watching them. His eyes widened at the sight of Bard on a gurney, covered in what must have looked like orange slime, and he turned back to Legolas. “Are you hurt, too?” Thranduil asked him. When Legolas shook his head, he exhaled before leaning in to press a kiss to Legolas’ forehead. “I’m glad you’re not hurt.” 

Legolas closed his eyes and nodded. Thranduil put his hands on Legolas’ shoulders and squeezed. “Make sure you take more care in the future,” he advised quietly. “And would you consider… joining Tauriel and I for dinner tonight?”

“Yes,” Legolas agreed. “I’ll come by after I clean up.” 

“Good. Thank you.” 

Legolas didn’t leave the Hospital Wing right away. He detoured to Bard’s bedside. He shifted his weight, looking down on Bard with a frown on his face. “I’m sorry you got hurt because of me,” Legolas mumbled. “Thank you for pulling me down out of the way.” 

Bard smiled. He knew Legolas never meant for him to get hurt---and, as he’d told Legolas already, he hadn’t been paying attention, either. “You’re welcome,” he said. “But, honestly, don’t beat yourself up over this. I’ll be fine by tomorrow. And we’ll have a lesson next week, if you still want it.” 

“Really?”

“Absolutely. We’ll get it right this time, I’m sure,” Bard replied. “So, try to enjoy the rest of your weekend, all right? Go flying or something.” 

The guilt on Legolas’ face lifted slightly as his lips curled into a small smile. “All right,” he agreed. 

“Get out of here,” Bard said, smiling at him. 

Legolas nodded and hurried out of the room. Poppy moved out of Thranduil’s path as he came closer to Bard; he stooped down in front of the bed, so neither of them would have to contort or strain to make eye contact. The worry in Thranduil’s face was still visible and Bard wanted to say something to assure Thranduil that Legolas had done everything right (apart from putting the bubotuber pus in at the wrong moment), but Thranduil spoke before he could put the words together. 

“How are you feeling?”

“A little sore, but the salve’s working,” Bard replied. 

Thranduil nodded. “What happened?”

“I forgot we’d added the willow wisps first,” Bard said. “He’s been doing better, really. It’s my fault the cauldron exploded. ” 

“How long has he been coming to you for help?”

Bard shifted slightly. “A couple of months, more or less. This was the first major accident.” 

Thranduil sighed. “I’m sorry, Bard.”

“Hey, it’s fine,” Bard murmured. “He’s getting there. And now, I think he’ll always remember the explosive properties of bubotubers.” He finished talking with a small smile, taking comfort in the way Thranduil smiled back at him. 

The pleasant expression didn’t last long, much to Bard’s disappointment. Thranduil’s spine stiffened and his lips pressed together, and in a matter of moments he looked cool and detached again. Bard wanted to reach out to him, squeeze his hand, assure him everything was fine and that he could stay if he wanted to… but he wasn’t sure that was what had taken over Thranduil’s thoughts and he didn’t want to overstep the boundaries of their friendship. 

“I’ll let you recover in peace,” Thranduil whispered. “I suspect you do not want your children finding out, if possible?”

“Word’ll get out in Gryffindor Tower, I’m sure,” Bard replied. He shifted his weight back, away from Thranduil and the temptation of reaching out for him. “Whatever happens is fine. I want to wait until tomorrow to tell them myself, but… whatever happens is fine.” 

“Your eldest will be angry with you.” 

Bard grinned. “Yeah, but I can defend myself against her when she’s cross,” he joked. “It’s when she makes puppy-dog eyes at me that I get into trouble.” 

Thranduil’s stern expression melted slightly. “Well, good luck with that,” he said. “I hope you heal quickly.” 

“Thanks, Thran,” Bard whispered. 

He watched Thranduil stand and retreat, his robes swishing along the floor, and once he thought he was alone again, he sighed. Wondering what Thranduil had been thinking to go stiff like that, Bard frowned.. He thought Thranduil had been fine, relaxed even, when he learned that Bard wasn’t seriously injured, but Thranduil had pulled back for an unknown reason. With another sigh, Bard closed his eyes and tried to settle his mind enough to take a nap, as that would be the only thing he’d be able to do in that position, until Poppy deemed him healed enough to travel back to his quarters.

&&&&&

After recovering from the burns, Bard survived the grief his children gave him for not telling them he’d been injured immediately after it happened, and the new week began with more rain than anyone thought the ground could hold.

Wet students were so common that Bard was casting warming charms on everyone as they entered the classroom in the dungeons, not wanting anyone to catch a chill as the spring weather did its best to melt the snow away. He’d asked one of the house elves, a wiry female with floppy ears named Softie, to keep a fire burning in his classroom and in his office through every day it was raining, because the damp was so quick to sink into his bones and he didn’t want to feel it more than he had to. 

Recognising the early signs of colds and flus and not wanting the children to feel more poorly than they already were, Bard sent several students to Poppy for doses of Pepperup Potion. Other professors were doing the same thing, it seemed, because as the week progressed he caught sight of more students with tendrils of steam still trailing from their ears. He would have stopped by for a dose, too, but he’d made a bottle of the potion to keep in his residence---in case his children fell ill---and he made sure to take a dose when the chill in the air seeped into his bones. 

The end of the week came with little fanfare. Bard was looking forward to tucking into bed with Cado at his side and a book in his hands, but he needed to find a new book before his plans could come to fruition. 

After his rounds of the castle---including Gryffindor Tower, because Minerva had passed nightly checks to him in the new year---he made his way to the library. Elrond had once given him permission to take anything he wished, after hours, only insisting that he leave a note so Elrond could add the withdrawal to his records in the morning. He thought he might find a new periodical or treatise on potions that might be the right combination of interesting and soporific to help him tip into a lazy sleep with little struggle or strain on his part. 

The library was dark, apart from a couple of lamps lit at opposite ends of the room; as he walked through the room, he spied a light in a corner that drew his curiosity. He crept towards it, through the paper-and-leather-scented shelves, and when he saw Thranduil sitting in a corner, books piled around him, he smiled. 

Thranduil hadn’t gone completely cold to him since the accident. He still sat with him at meals and talked with him as he always did; Bard spotted the tension in Thranduil’s body language but it didn’t seem to affect their interactions. He still wondered what Thranduil was thinking, but he didn’t ask; he wanted to avoid uncomfortable silences and strained conversations. He wanted Thranduil around, even more if he could manage it, and he knew asking about the change in Thranduil’s demeanor would make that goal difficult to achieve. 

Watching Thranduil flip through the pages, squinting at the words in front of him, Bard wondered how often he came to the library and sat for what must be hours, given the books strewn on the floor and side table. As Thranduil reached up and rubbed his temples, the urge to do that for him tingled in Bard’s fingers; he flushed and looked away for a moment, steeling himself against the feelings that struck him more often when he had the chance to observe Thranduil. He cleared his throat. Thranduil looked up, startled and tense, but he relaxed as he saw who was there at the end of the aisle. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Bard asked. 

“Doing research,” Thranduil replied. “Can’t work when the students are here. Elrond said I make them uneasy.” 

Bard wanted to laugh, but he reined it in and settled for grinning at Thranduil instead. He walked towards Thranduil and stopped in front of the pile of books that looked like the discarded pile, since they weren’t nearly as organised as the remaining books on the table. He bent down and picked one up. Its title was in a language he couldn’t understand, but a few words looked familiar and the images on the book of animals were recognisable. 

“Old magic project?” he asked Thranduil. 

“Something like that.” 

Setting the book aside, Bard rose to a standing position. “Can I help?” 

“Sure,” Thranduil said, his gaze turning sharp and attentive again. “What is a throselmouth?”

Bard’s breath caught in his chest as he realised Thranduil had put a lot of his own evidence together. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he glanced from Thranduil to the books. Thranduil waited. 

“Someone who can speak to thrushes,” Bard said. 

“Someone like you.” 

Bard nodded. “And you, I suspect,” he said. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Thranduil asked. 

“When I had enough evidence,” Bard replied, feeling a little like he’d been caught in a lie. “When I knew how to bring it up.” 

With a little nod, Thranduil closed the book in his lap and stood up. He picked up some of the books from his pile of discarded volumes and started setting them on one of the carts Elrond used to ferry books around the library. Bard leaned back against the shelves and watched him, waiting for Thranduil to say something else. 

“Throseltongue is mentioned in the book you gave me,” Thranduil said in a voice so soft Bard could barely make out his words. “But, only to say that it’s a rare---if extinct---language and it goes no further. I found that mysterious, so I tried doing my own research. Elrond had never heard of the language, surprisingly. I was on my own. Every night I have some free time, I go back to these books… it took me a while to realise what had been happening in front of me.” 

“Thran…” 

“I thought I was losing my mind, you know,” Thranduil admitted as he worked. “Not all the way, just a little crack on the edge. I could hear you and those birds talking in front of me, but no one else ever reacted to it. I thought I was imagining it all, like always.” 

“You’re not,” Bard said. 

Thranduil nodded. He returned to his pile of books and gathered up another armful. Bard watched him work, distracted only by the way Thranduil’s hair settled over his back with every movement he made. Bard couldn’t decide if Thranduil was calm or was pretending to be, but he was glad he wasn’t being yelled at or cursed for keeping that information to himself. 

“I suppose you thought I’d think you were mad if you came to me and asked?”

With a little cough to clear his throat, Bard shrugged. “Maybe? When I brought it up with a classmate, they thought I was like a Parselmouth, and that didn’t go over well,” he said. “I know you like proof, hard facts, studies… I thought if I had enough evidence…” 

“Then, I’d believe you,” Thranduil finished, smiling slightly as he turned around and leaned against the shelves on his side of the aisle. At Bard’s nod, his lips curved more. “Well, I do believe you.” 

“Good.” 

“I don’t know how to switch back and forth,” Thranduil said. “I can’t turn it on and off.” 

“It gets easier with practice.” 

Thranduil drummed his fingers against the books behind him, a soft melody of _pat-pat-pat_ against leather spines. “If it’s like Parseltongue, there’s a genetic component. Do… do your children speak it?” he asked. 

Bard smiled---he found it hard not to smile when he was talking about his children---and nodded. “Sigrid and Tilda do, yes,” he replied. “I’m not sure about Bain. Sometimes I think he understands the thrushes, but I don’t think he’s tried to talk back.” 

He wanted to ask if he thought Legolas or Arphenion could speak with thrushes, but the words got lost somewhere on the journey from his brain to his mouth as he noticed Thranduil watching him. The sharp look from earlier, was gone, and a softer, darker expression had settled in his eyes. Thranduil looked so much more approachable there, leaning against the books, and Bard had to remind himself not to rush forward into anything so he didn’t ruin their friendship with his own impressions and false assumptions. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Thranduil murmured. 

“I should’ve sooner, but…” 

“No good time to tell someone they really can talk to birds?” Thranduil suggested.

At Thranduil’s light tone of voice, Bard cracked a grin. He nodded and stepped off of the wall. Instead of approaching Thranduil, he went to the pile of books on the end table; he found the book he’d read when he was a student. Thranduil followed him. When Bard turned he almost startled at how close they were. 

“This… this is the book I found when I was looking for an explanation,” Bard said. “There isn’t much to go on. I wish I had more information for you, but… it’s all fairly instinctual.” 

A smirk curled Thranduil’s lips. He took the book, his fingers brushing Bard’s in the process, and brought it up to his chest. The book appeared cradled, safe and cherished, and Bard was struck by a brief pang of jealousy; he almost laughed when he realised he was jealous of a book and then the need to express that amusement faded as he was struck by how precious learning was to Thranduil, even visible in the way he held the tome close. At that realisation, Bard knew he wanted to be the one to teach Thranduil how to sing to the birds, how to communicate with them intentionally; he wanted to give Thranduil more of the knowledge he sought and cherished. 

“You are a man of instinct,” Thranduil said, his whispered words drawing Bard’s attention from his developing thoughts. “You probably got that tattoo on a whim or a dare and never looked back. You brew potions like someone would cook a fry-up, making adjustments as you go. You speak another language and never had to study it because it just magically came to you.” 

“It comes to you, too,” Bard whispered back. “Sometimes, there’s no need for instructions or a set plan, you know.” 

Thranduil snorted. “Is this where you tell me to relax and go with the flow?”

“It’s my first lesson in learning Throseltongue,” Bard said with a grin. 

A brief laugh escaped Thranduil’s lips, deep and resonant---and way too short in Bard’s opinion. He decided he was going to try to make Thranduil laugh more, if he could, if they could spend more time together, because it was a wonderful sound and should be heard often. 

“I’ll do my best, but it’s difficult… to let go,” Thranduil said, traces of laughter still in his voice. 

Chuckling, Bard said, “We’ll just have to keep at it until you get it.”

Thranduil looked at Bard like he didn’t believe him, but he nodded and shifted the book to the table. “What sort of book were you looking for?” he asked. 

“Anything to help me sleep,” Bard said. “I thought something from the Guild might do the trick. They’re all so long-winded.” 

Thranduil didn’t react to his joking comment, but instead focused on the first bit of Bard’s response. He frowned as his hand reached out for Bard but retracted before contact could be made. “You’re having trouble sleeping?” he asked quietly. “Is it the burns? Or---”

“The burns have healed.” 

“Really?” Thranduil inquired. “Legolas said you were on fire.”

“He was worried. But, really, I’m fine. I---” 

“You were on fire!” Thranduil exclaimed, his voice suddenly loud in the empty library as his hands flapped in Bard’s direction. “Did you even go back to Madam Pomfrey for a check after---”

“Hey,” Bard interrupted. “I’m fine. You want to see? Barely a mark on me.” 

Eyes widening, Thranduil asked, “You’d let me look?”

In response, Bard turned around and shifted the hems of his his jumper and vest up around the middle of his back. He craned his neck and spoke over his shoulder: “If it’ll make you feel better, yeah. The tattoo’s still there, somewhere, so don’t let it startle you.” 

He felt Thranduil’s fingers pushing up the back of his shirts as far as they could stretch, skimming over his skin, and then he felt the warmth of wand light and more brushing, fleeting touches. Thranduil must have remembered where the salve had been applied, because he traced over the rough area as if looking for scars he could not see. He did not know the skin was new and still sensitive, though, and Bard hoped Thranduil couldn’t feel the way his pulse quickened as shivers tickled his nerves when Thranduil’s fingers brushed over the most sensitive of spots. 

“That’s… good,” Thranduil whispered as the flat of his hand settled between Bard’s shoulder blades. “I’m glad no lasting damage was done.” 

“Me, too,” Bard mumbled. 

Thranduil seemed to startle. His hand twitched before he pulled it back. Not knowing what was going through Thranduil’s mind, Bard eased his shirts down as he slowly turned around. Thranduil’s wand was still lit; its glow allowed Bard to see a faint flush on Thranduil’s face, two spots of colour high on his cheeks. 

On a quiet whisper, Bard said his name and waited for a response. The only reaction Thranduil gave was a slow blink and a quick shift of his gaze towards Bard’s chin before looking up into his eyes. Bard smiled, trying to seem calm in spite of the way his pulse quickened and his mind whirled through all the ways their shared moment could go wrong, and he slowly took Thranduil’s hand in his. 

Thranduil shivered, his body vibrating for a moment before stilling completely. His eyes were wide and dark, watching every move Bard made as he closed the gap between them, and it was only the way a corner of his mouth lifted that gave Bard the encouragement to continue on the path he’d chosen. Bard wanted to keep his eyes open, to watch, to gauge if his advance would be accepted (or not), but as soon as his lips brushed over Thranduil’s for the first time, his lashes fluttered down on impulse and he was blind. 

Their first kiss would have been completely chaste if it wasn’t for the slight sucking of Thranduil’s lower lip. Their second kiss was a surprise to Bard; he’d pulled back to give Thranduil a moment, to see if he’d overstepped the boundaries of their friendship, and Thranduil had followed him, chasing his lips to return the gesture. 

Bard released Thranduil’s hand after the third kiss and had both of his hands on Thranduil’s hips before the fourth could be initiated. His robes were soft to the touch, but it was the firmness of his body underneath that pleased Bard most. That contact, combined with the lingering taste of fruit and spice his mouth and the softness of his lips that spent so much time pressed into hard lines and sharp smirks, made Thranduil feel more real to Bard than he had all year. In that moment, before the kisses had a chance to plunge into _more_ , Bard knew he wanted to feel Thranduil like this as often as he was allowed. 

Pulling back, Bard brushed his nose against Thranduil’s before looking into his face. Thranduil’s eyes were lidded and dark; his lips were parted and his tongue swiped out to brush over them. Bard bit back a groan. 

“Nox,” Thranduil whispered. 

The wandlight vanished, leaving them dimly lit by the lamp near Thranduil’s abandoned chair. With the vanishing light went Thranduil’s inhibitions, too, it seemed. He pounced on Bard, arms around his body so his hands could slide underneath Bard’s clothes. His fingers seemed to be on a quest to find every sensitive area along the skin of Bard’s back; every sigh and moan Bard made in response was swallowed by Thranduil’s mouth. 

In response, Bard’s hands slid up Thranduil’s body until his fingers were able to tangle themselves in Thranduil’s long hair. He tugged gently, experimentally, and was rewarded with a groan; when he gave Thranduil’s hair another pull, he felt Thranduil’s body shiver, rolling against Bard’s body and creating delicious friction that had them both sucking in a sharp breath. 

Thranduil pulled back. Bard wanted to ask questions--- _Is this all right? What are we doing?_ \---but the thoughts were lost when Thranduil tugged on his shirt and maneuvered him into the armchair in which Thranduil had been originally found. Bard fell back into the cushioned seat and looked up in time to see Thranduil preparing to climb into his lap. His robes swished as he moved, folding into Bard’s personal space and claiming it as his own, and then they acted as a cocoon, as a barrier of sorts to isolate them from the outside world. Bard felt warmth, inside and out, despite the wave of gooseflesh that Thranduil’s fingers slipping into his hair created. 

“Thran,” Bard murmured. 

“Am I overstepping?” Thranduil asked, the desire in his eyes giving way to concern. 

Bard shook his head. Thranduil smiled and lowered his face to Bard’s, seeking another kiss. Bard gave it willingly, eagerly, but before long, he was pulling his mouth away and dragging it down the pale stretch of Thranduil’s neck. He sucked and licked his way down, before kissing and nipping his way up again; he took the time to suck beneath Thranduil’s jaw, scraping the red mark with his teeth and making Thranduil moan in reaction. 

“Yes,” Thranduil encouraged, his voice barely a hissing whisper. 

Bard chuckled against Thranduil’s skin, as Thranduil’s hands tightened on the back of his head, as he kissed his way to the other side of Thranduil’s neck. He nipped at what must have been a sensitive place because as soon as his teeth grazed over the skin, Thranduil whined and rocked against him. He repeated his actions, enjoying the sounds Thranduil was making, and pressed his hips up into those pushing down on him. Thranduil’s fingers scratched against the back of Bard’s neck, the icy-hot scrapes making Bard feel as if he were slowly simmering on the inside. 

Thranduil groaned. “Do that again,” he insisted. 

“Bossy,” Bard whispered. 

Instead of following through on Thranduil’s demand, Bard brushed his lips lightly over the spot he’d been tormenting. 

“You are an infuriating man,” Thranduil growled. “Ever since you arrived, you’ve been---”

Bard tugged the collar of Thranduil’s robes aside and bit lightly into the junction of his neck and shoulder. Thranduil’s complaint died in his throat and another whine escaped his lips. 

“I’ve been what?” Bard asked. 

“Getting on my nerves,” Thranduil replied, his voice rough with desire. He reached up and put his hands on either side of Bard’s face; his thumbs brushed over his upper lip, smoothing over it with gentle strokes. “Not following the rules… abandoning standard procedures…” 

“Life can’t be lived by a book,” Bard said. 

Thranduil chuckled. Bard licked his tongue over the pad of one of Thranduil’s thumbs; a moment later, he nipped at the same flesh. Thranduil smiled and leaned in to replace his thumb with his mouth. 

Their kisses continued, intensifying with every touch of lips to lips, until Bard was panting for breath and nearly mindless with desire. Anything he’d been feeling for Thranduil, from a distance, was nothing compared to what Bard felt for him when he was sitting in Bard’s lap. He didn’t want the evening to end, didn’t want anything to interrupt the peace and quiet and dizzyingly intimate experience they were sharing in the empty library. 

Bard’s hands slid from Thranduil’s waist to the fastenings on his robes; he unfastened the outer layer (barrier) and slipped his hands under the thick fabric. Thranduil’s body undulated under his touch, as Bard skimmed his hands up and down the shirt-clad chest he’d discovered, and Thranduil groaned and gripped Bard’s shoulders for support as he shivered against Bard’s body. Bard tugged his shirt free from his belt and slipped his hands underneath the fabric; at the first touch of rough hands to silky skin, Thranduil groaned again while Bard sighed and closed his eyes. 

“Merlin’s---” Thranduil’s muttered curse was cut off by a whine. Bard’s fingers had found a nipple and traced a circle around it; Bard grinned at Thranduil’s response and repeated the movement. “Don’t stop,” Thranduil insisted before he kissed his way over Bard’s scruffy face and jaw to find a place to hide in his neck. 

Bard continued his exploration of Thranduil’s chest, content to feel his way around and savour the way Thranduil reacted to his touch. He skimmed his hands over Thranduil’s sides and along his back before returning to his chest. He alternated between scraping gently with his nails and rubbing firmly with the pads of his fingers, learning where and how Thranduil liked to be touched by using the sounds Thranduil made as a guide. 

At the first touch of Thranduil’s hand to the centre of his bare chest, Bard startled. Looking down revealed that Thranduil had tugged up his sweater in his distraction. Thranduil’s pale fingers spread out over his skin, then curled; he closed his eyes, tipping his head back against the top of the chair, and when Thranduil kissed the hollow of his collarbone, he hummed happily. 

Thranduil nipped at the bone, laved the area with his tongue, and then followed the trail he’d left with his fingers. Bard shivered and whispered words of encouragement. Thranduil’s smile seemed to burn against his flesh before he opened his mouth and sucked a bit of a mark into his chest. 

While Thranduil carried out his own mission of exploration, Bard fumbled his way around the buttons of Thranduil’s shirt. He wanted the robes gone; he wanted no barriers between them now that they’d found their way into this moment. Hands and mouths weren’t enough anymore and he wanted to feel the press of Thranduil’s bare body to his. Judging by the way Thranduil was behaving, tugging at Bard’s sweater every time it got in his way, Bard guessed he has entertaining similar thoughts. 

The offending sweater was pulled off with a growl of frustration on Thranduil’s part and a huff of amusement on Bard’s part. Thranduil tossed it behind him; when Bard pushed at his outer robes, Thranduil moved his arms back and let the heavy garment fall. Thranduil smirked and leaned away from Bard as he brought his hands up; he unfastened the buttons of his shirt slowly, too slowly for Bard’s tastes, and then he unfastened his cuffs. Impatient, Bard leaned forward before the shirt could be removed. He fasted his mouth to Thranduil’s nipple and sucked, gently at first but with more force when Thranduil whined and shuddered against him. 

“You are going to ruin the library for me,” Thranduil said, his voice both softer and rougher at the same time. 

“Is that a complaint?” Bard asked, peeking up at him. 

Thranduil shook his head. “Merlin, no, but I won’t be able to come to this corner without thinking about your mouth,” he admitted. “I have a hard enough time thinking about it as it is.” 

“Yeah?” 

Pleasure and pride burned in the pit of Bard’s stomach at Thranduil’s nod, adding to the arousal he was already feeling. He grinned. He hadn’t known Thranduil thought about him that way, but he was relieved and flattered and _pleased_. He pulled Thranduil down for a kiss, the only way he could think to respond to Thranduil’s admission, and he didn’t let him go until they were both out of breath---and even then, it was only for few seconds before he kissed him again. 

When a bright light intruded on them, Bard wasn’t sure it was really there. He thought maybe he was imagining it, like fireworks behind his eyes, because the kisses were delicious and Thranduil was scratching his nails through the hair at the nape of Bard’s neck and everything they did felt really good. But, then, Thranduil gasped and lifted his head and turned to looked at the intruder. Bard leaned to the side and saw a floating, ghost-like cat, sitting on its haunches in front of him. 

“Gentlemen, I require your presence in my office, if you could tear yourselves away from your reading,” Minerva’s patronus said in her voice. “A matter has come up involving a student from Ravenclaw and a student from Gryffindor.” 

“We’ll---” Bard stopped and cleared his throat. “We’ll be right there.” 

The patronus dissolved into the darkness of the library once its message had been delivered. Thranduil chuckled as he turned back to face Bard. Pressing his face into the side of Bard’s head, Thranduil kissed his temple. “She can’t see or hear us,” he whispered. 

“It wouldn’t surprise me if she could,” Bard muttered in reply. 

Still laughing a little, Thranduil pulled back. He brushed his fingers over Bard’s cheek. “To be continued?” he asked. 

Bard nodded. “Any time you want,” he said sincerely. He smiled at the way Thranduil’s body seemed to relax just a little bit more. “Guess we should… go?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Thranduil said. He stole one more kiss from Bard’s lips, a brief reminder of everything that had happened and would hopefully happen again, before slipping from Bard’s lap. He stood and fastened the buttons on his shirt; Bard leaned back to watch, enjoying the sight almost as much as he’d enjoyed sight of the buttons being unfastened earlier. When Thranduil looked at him, saw him watching, he snorted and bent to pick up Bard’s sweater. He threw it at Bard’s head. 

With a laugh, Bard pulled his sweater on and stood as Thranduil finished shaking out his outer robes. He took the garment from Thranduil’s hands and held it up for Thranduil. Thranduil smiled and turned. He slid one arm into its sleeve, did the same with the other, and then Bard eased the robes up until they could rest on his shoulders. Bard gently eased Thranduil’s hair out from under the robes and let it settle down his back. 

“Come on,” Thranduil murmured. “If you’re ready, we shouldn’t keep her waiting.” 

Bard nodded. He didn’t want to go, but it was their job. Once he felt (and hopefully looked) less ruffled, he nodded to Thranduil and followed him out of the library.

&&&

If Minerva’s patronus had told him Sigrid was the Ravenclaw student in trouble, Bard wouldn’t have believed it. He would have laughed, he would have been sure she was joking. Seeing Sigrid sitting in one of Minerva’s chairs was a shock to his system; he was having a hard time believing that she was in trouble, even though she was there and she was. Éomer Rohanson, a seventh year Gryffindor, was seated, too, looking rumpled and embarrassed, and Bard quickly put two and two together. He’d been caught once or twice, too, when he was a student, but seeing his daughter caught out of bed and in what was probably a romantic liaison, left Bard feeling unbalanced.

“Ah. Professor Oropherion. Professor Bowdyn,” Minerva said as they came into her office. “I apologise for interrupting your evening. These two were caught by Mister Minyatur on tonight’s patrol, and I thought you should be informed.” 

“Where?” Thranduil asked. “And what were they doing?”

Minerva looked at him over her spectacles. “In one of the alcoves on the fifth floor,” she replied, “and I don’t think I need to spell it out for you, do I?”

“Ah. No,” Bard said quickly, not wanting to hear any of the specifics. 

Thranduil turned to Sigrid. “You’re hardly the first, but I am disappointed,” he said quietly, no heat in his tone. Sigrid nodded. “Ten points from Ravenclaw, Miss Bowdyn, and I will see you in my office for detention tomorrow afternoon. At two o’clock.” 

“Yes sir,” she mumbled. 

“Sig,” Bard said, “I’d like to talk with you. Go to my quarters and wait for me there. I won’t be long.” 

She nodded again. With a look to Éomer, she slid off her chair and walked out of the office. Éomer rubbed his hands on his knees and looked at the professors. Bard glanced at Minerva, who nodded, and he took that to mean he could punish the student as he saw fit. Part of him wanted to lock Éomer in a cell---there had to be cells in the dungeons’ depths, somewhere---but he knew that would be unreasonable (and illegal), so he decided to go with detention and a loss of points, too. 

“You lose Gryffindor fifteen points, Mister Rohanson,” he said, “and you’re going to be spending most of day with me tomorrow. I need someone to clean my cauldrons, for starters, so come to my office at ten o’clock.” 

“But, sir, Quidditch practice is tomorr---”

“Really? You were caught with Professor Bowdyn’s daughter and you think you should be more concerned with Quidditch?” Thranduil said. “ _I_ think you should consider how lucky you are to still be in one piece.” 

Thranduil’s words and the truth of his situation seemed to dawn slowly on Éomer. His eyes widened as he looked at Bard and then he nodded, bowing his head at the end of the gesture. Bard would have laughed if Éomer hadn’t been caught making out with his daughter. He settled for gesturing towards the door. 

“Back to your dormitory, Mister Rohanson, and do stay there for the rest of the night,” he said. 

Éomer nodded again and hurried from the room. 

Minerva sighed. “Well, they aren’t the first and they won’t be the last,” she said, echoing Thranduil’s earlier statement to Sigrid. “I’m sorry to tear you both away from your evening plans, but I thought you should be informed.” 

“We were just reading,” Thranduil said, shrugging. 

“Would either of you like some tea? Or something stronger?” Minerva asked. 

With a slight shake of his head, Bard declined. “I better get to my rooms,” he said. “I don’t want to leave Sigrid waiting there for too long.” 

Giving them both a little smile, Minerva nodded. “Very well. Bard, I do hope you won’t be too hard on her,” she said, her voice taking on a concerned tone. 

Bard managed a small smile. “No, she deserves to be a kid. Can’t fault her for having some fun, but I still… have to discuss some things with her,” he said, fighting against the urge to shift his weight or do anything else to show his discomfort. They’d had ‘the talk’ years ago, but he still felt like he should say something---anything---to show his concern and to make sure she was taking the proper precautions. He was not looking forward to it, but he knew it was necessary, for his peace of mind and to ensure Sigrid’s well-being as much as he could. 

He left shortly after that, Thranduil on his heels. When they were a corridor or two away from Minerva’s office, Thranduil slipped his hand around Bard’s elbow. 

“Are you all right?” 

Bard snorted. “More or less, yeah,” he replied. 

“I won’t give her a difficult deten---”

“You give her whatever detention you’d give another student,” Bard insisted. He smiled and shrugged. “No favours. I won’t have it.” 

“I… if you’re sure.” 

“I am.” 

Thranduil nodded and continued to walk with him. Bard was glad for the company, even if nothing else was said; his thoughts were uncomfortable and Thranduil’s presence helped keep the worst of them at bay. At the opening to Bard’s quarters, before the password was spoken, Thranduil leaned in and kissed Bard’s cheek. Bard smiled and turned his head, taking a proper kiss from Thranduil’s lips. 

“Have a good night, Thran,” he whispered. 

Thranduil left him with a smile and a squeeze of his arm. Shaking his head at the way his evening had unfolded, he said the password and entered the main room of his home. 

Sigrid was sitting in front of the fire with Cado draped over her lap. She looked up when he entered the room, frowning a little, and before he could say anything she was apologising in a quiet rambling tangle of words. 

“Hey, hey,” Bard interrupted, “stop that, Sigrid.” 

“But---”

“I know you’re sorry, but really, you have nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “You’re young, you’re allowed to make mistakes, you’re allowed to date… even though it kills me to admit it.” 

Sigrid’s frown disappeared as surprise settled in her face. “Da?”

He toed out of his boots and padded across the room. He sat down on the chesterfield, groaning a little as he settled, and he looked down at her. “You’ve been a grown up for far too long. I’m glad you’re acting your age,” he admitted. Leaning forward, he said, “Just tell me… you’re being careful?”

Sigrid’s face blushed a bright scarlet. “Um, it wasn’t… we’re not… no, I don’t want to---I mean, it was just…” 

“Kissing?”

She nodded. Bard felt a little of the worried tension in his gut dissipate at her response. “You know how to brew one of the potions if… or you could ask me to, if you’re worried about it or don’t want to see Madam Pomfrey. When you’re---or if you’re considering… something more,” he said, glad that, despite the broken sentences, he was able to push through and share what else he’d been thinking. 

Sigrid’s eyes widened. “Thanks. I think I can figure it out, though.” 

“Well, I don’t mind. It might be weird, and Merlin knows I wish your mother were here for moments like this, but I love you and I’d do anything for you.” 

“I know,” she murmured. She eased Cado off her lap and joined her father. “You don’t have anything to worry about. Not with Éomer. We’re not that serious.” 

The remaining tension in him faded. He breathed a sigh of relief and hugged her close. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head and relished the moment because he was sure their days of closeness were numbered. Soon, she’d be off on her own, studying or working, and she wouldn’t need him. She hardly needed him now, but at least she pretended and humoured him. 

“How much trouble is he in?” Sigrid asked quietly. 

“He has detention with me tomorrow. I have a tutoring session with another student, so I suspect there will be a few cauldrons and some other equipment for him to clean,” Bard replied. 

Sigrid nodded. Then, she looked him in the eye and said, “Please don’t scare him off, Dad.” 

“You like him? Really? He always seemed like a bit of a hothead to me.” 

She smiled. “He’s nice when he’s not playing---or talking about---Quidditch. And he’s cleverer than he looks.” 

“Well, good, because he doesn’t look very---” Before he could finish talking, Sigrid laughed and swatted at his shoulder. He grinned and pulled her in for another hug. “I’ll try not to be too frightening. But, I have to admit, I’d like nothing more than to run him out of the castle. If he ever treats you like you’re less than amazing, you kick him to the curb, you hear me?”

She smiled. “I will, don’t worry.” 

“Good. Now, get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got gossiping and swooning and hair braiding to do in the dorms with your friends,” he teased. 

Sigrid rolled her eyes. “Sure, Dad,” she murmured. 

After another hug, she left. 

Once he was alone, Bard closed his eyes and let out a low groan. He’d only intended to find a book to read, but his night had taken an interesting turn---and then a surprising turn after that. He pushed thoughts of Sigrid and Éomer out of his mind, because he did not like to think of his daughter dating anyone, no matter how nice she thought they were, and chose to think about his time in the library with Thranduil before they were interrupted. 

Grinning at the memory of Thranduil in his lap and the feel of those long fingers against his skin, Bard felt a little better about the last few minutes of the night. He was amazed that Thranduil seemed to want him back; he hadn’t counted on his attraction being reciprocated. He wondered when he’d see Thranduil again, and if they’d be able to make time to pick up where they’d been interrupted. He wondered if he should ask Thranduil out on a date, or if he should simply play it by ear and see what happened. No matter what, though, he was looking forward to seeing Thranduil again.


	7. Chapter 7

Éomer survived his detention, though Bard had half-heartedly wished the slime in the bottom of Legolas’ cauldron had caused him to disappear, and life at Hogwarts continued on as normally as it could. He went to his meals, taught his classes, met with his children as often as he could… and on the outside, to the casual observer, he was the same as he’d always been. 

However, inside, he was fighting the urge to grin every time Thranduil made eye contact with him or touched him unnecessarily. Their friendship had shifted, into something else, but Bard didn’t know what it was. He knew it was different, he knew it was closer, somehow, but apart from that there was no label he could find to use. Lover was inaccurate and boyfriend felt ridiculously juvenile for two grown men with children. Friend didn’t seem to do Thranduil justice. They’d made no promises to each other, but the way Thranduil would pull him into a dark corner for a quick kiss while on patrol was beginning to feel like the makings of an agreement of some kind. 

A few times, Bard tried to ask Thranduil out on a date, but the Ravenclaws had already started study sessions and he oversaw most of them as their Head of House so his evenings and weekends were booked solid. Bard hated that; he wanted to treat Thranduil better, he wanted to give Thranduil more than a few stolen moments in empty corridors. Despite that, he couldn’t bring himself to suggest leaving the study sessions in the hands of a capable seventh year student. He knew Thranduil valued learning and wanted to help his students; he would remind himself that he was an adult and could be patient and wait for Thranduil to tell him he had a free afternoon or night. 

The time he couldn’t spend with Thranduil was put to good use. He put a lot of hours into his project car and by the time all the snow had melted and the grounds had turned green, the vehicle was starting to look more like the car it had been designed to be. He’d repaired the panels, welding pieces to the body to fix where holes had been or where damage had needed to be excised, and Bain had taken to joining him on weekends to learn how to strip and polish and paint the body of the car while Bard worked on the insides. 

That particular Saturday afternoon, after a lesson with Legolas (who was showing lots of improvement by that point, to Bard’s delight), he was outside the carriage house, enjoying the sunshine and picking apart the car’s engine. Bain was inside, working with the machinery to get some of the last panels smoothed before painting. He was sitting on a stool, tinkering but keeping an ear tuned to the work going on in the shed; he worried about Bain, even though he knew Bain could handle the work, and he wanted to stay attentive in case help was needed. 

A sensation like an itch, but on the inside of his skull and not on his skin, distracted his split attention. He dropped a wrench, and then later he fumbled some of the components of a valve; nothing was broken, it didn’t really matter. He continued working and listening to Bain, but he could not put the strange feeling out of his mind. 

It felt like he was being watched or like he had forgotten something that some part of his brain still remembered, he wasn’t sure which. But, as he fumbled through cleaning another valve and reassembling the pieces, he felt annoyed by the continued sensation. 

Bain came out of the carriage house at one point, claiming he needed a break from the work; Bard suggested Bain go back into the castle to find a snack or to visit with his friends. Bain agreed, declaring that a trip to the kitchens was just what he needed, and Bard watched him go with a smile on his face. Bain had put on weight since coming to Hogwarts; he’d filled out his robes and lost the look of growing too much, too quickly. He looked stronger, a little less lanky, another reminder that Bard’s children weren’t so young anymore. 

Giving himself a little shake, he returned to his work. In the silence, despite the persisting mental itch, he repaired what he could. His progress was both interrupted and assisted by a few trips to the shed for the replacement parts he’d ordered through an intermediary service (because muggle salvage yards and automobile shops did not receive owl post). Each time he was in the small structure, he paused to inspect some of Bain’s work. He found no reason to linger, as Bain had done his work well, and after every trip inside he returned to his temporary workstation in the sun. 

He whistled greetings when a group of thrushes flew past him. A few of the birds stopped to inspect what he was doing, but none of them stayed very long. It wasn’t very interesting work, to the birds, Bard reasoned, and took no offense from their departure. He watched some of them return to the forest, heading for the tops of tall trees, but he also saw a couple turn into the nearest greenhouse, through an open door. He hoped that they weren’t going to cause problems for Pomona’s plants---or that her plants wouldn’t cause problems for the birds. 

He thought about going after them but they didn’t linger too long in the structure. As they fluttered out and returned to their friends in the trees, he caught pieces of their conversations, words like _irritating_ and _guard_ and _fuss_ ; he wasn’t sure what they meant, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised someone must have been in the greenhouse. Assuming it was either Pomona or a senior student who interrupted their exploration, it was easy to put the birds’ annoyance out of his mind, until he caught a glimpse of Thranduil standing in the open doorway. 

He disappeared before Bain reappeared, a blur of blond hair whipping out of the doorway in Bard’s peripheral vision. Bard had wanted to call out, to draw Thranduil back to him, but decided against that course of action. If Thranduil had wanted him to know he was there he would have said something. There had to be a reason Thranduil was hiding, even though Bard couldn’t figure out what it was. He fought the urge to laugh at Thranduil’s antics, lost to let a chuckle escape, and he returned to his work.  
It wasn’t until he was alone and packing up his work for the day that he decided to do something about his not-so-secret observer. On his way out of the carriage house for the last time, before he locked the doors, he whistled for one of the local thrushes. 

The small bird fluttered down to him, perching on his shoulder. After it chirped a greeting, Bard smiled and whistled: _“Could you send a message to my friend? The man with long golden hair and grey eyes?”_

 _“The one in the greenhouse?”_ the bird asked in reply. 

Bard confirmed that was the person he wished to contact. The bird on his shoulder bounced and assured him the message could be delivered. 

_“Tell him next time, he could come out and join me, instead of hiding in the shadows,”_ Bard said. 

The thrush sang out his agreement and flew away, leaving Bard to watch until he soared out of sight. 

&&&&&

There was no response right away---and honestly, Bard wasn’t sure if he’d ever receive one. Thranduil had been practicing his Throseltongue, but he still struggled switching intentionally into the language. It frustrated Thranduil that he couldn’t consciously turn it on and off; Bard’s ability to do so was had come naturally to him, so his explanations and advice weren’t as helpful as either of them would like. But Bard knew that Thranduil would eventually figure it out, which was part of the reason why he sent the message. 

The reply came Monday morning, before Bard could go to the Great Hall for breakfast. A thrush tapped at his bedroom window and Bard let it inside. 

_“I’m to tell you that he has no idea what you’re talking about,”_ the bird sang. 

Bard laughed as the thrush flew away. 

He didn’t see Thranduil that morning. He hurried through breakfast and to his morning class. After two lessons on the various ways to use flobberworm slime, he’d nearly forgotten about the thrush’s message; seeing Thranduil at the staff table for lunch reminded him about the response he’d received and almost had him laughing again as he approached. 

_“No idea what I’m talking about?”_ Bard whistled at Thranduil as he took the seat next to him. 

Thranduil smirked. “Nope.” 

Chuckling, Bard reached for one of the sandwiches on the platter in front of him. He set it on his plate but took a sip from his glass of water before eating. He glanced at Thranduil, but he was focused on the book in his hands so Bard turned his attention to his meal. 

When Thranduil left the table, murmuring a quiet good-bye and a wish for a good afternoon, Bard whistled his response, earning a roll of Thranduil’s eyes for his efforts. 

&&&

When one of the thrushes came to visit him in his office, Bard decided to send another message to Thranduil. He asked the little bird if he’d mind and he was told it enjoyed having something to do. 

_“Tell him I’ll be working on my car this weekend, and he can join me if he wants,”_ Bard whistled. _“And that I promise he doesn’t have to do any work to mess up his delicate hands.”_

The thrush twittered happily and flew away, chirping as it travelled through the corridors. 

&&&&&

Thranduil’s response came two days later in Gelia’s talons. 

_“I do not have delicate hands”_ was all the message said. 

Bard grinned and pocketed the scrap of parchment. 

&&&

He sent his response to Thranduil’s note later that night, by way of the same thrush he’d dispatched with his invitation. He’d assumed the bird would have found Thranduil earlier that day, but surprisingly, it did not find Thranduil until he walked into the Great Hall for the evening meal. 

_“He didn’t mean to imply they weren’t strong,”_ the bird sang as it fluttered onto the high back of Thranduil’s chair. _“And he said to tell you that he remembers them as both.”_

Bard had to hold in his laughter as Thranduil glowered and blushed nearly simultaneously. 

“Seriously?” Thranduil hissed, leaning in so he could whisper near Bard’s ear and keep their conversation private from the other professors. “You’re sending amorous messages through a bird?”

“I thought it might be incentive to get you whistling your own tune,” Bard murmured. He reached forward for his glass of stout (somehow the house-elves always knew the best beer to match the main course, they’d never paired wrongly yet) and sipped from it. Looking over the rim of the glass, he met Thranduil’s gaze and smiled. “I know you can do it,” he said, his voice still quiet and soft. “It’s been getting easier, yeah?” 

Glancing away from Bard, Thranduil nodded. 

“So whistle me a tune,” Bard suggested. 

“But---”

 _“I know you can do it,”_ Bard whistled. 

Thranduil huffed and plucked a cherry tomato from the salad on his place. He popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly, and then he washed it down with a mouthful of iced tea. “I can’t always do it,” Thranduil reminded him. “I can’t switch it on and off.” 

Bard broke a roll in two and took a bite out of one of the pieces. After swallowing, he spoke in Throseltongue. _“I know. It’s not easy. But practice helps.”_

“I can understand it. That’s enough,” Thranduil muttered. 

“Is it?” Bard asked. When Thranduil shrugged, Bard sighed. After a spoonful of his stew, he settled back in his chair and looked at Thranduil. “You love knowledge. Languages have never stumped you for long before, you love to translate old manuscripts to try to unearth what secrets they hold. You have this ability buried deep inside you, to speak with the birds, to learn from them, and I can’t imagine you passing it up.” 

Thranduil frowned. “It… is difficult.” 

“The good things in life often are,” Bard said, before pursing his lips and whistling, _“I would never laugh at you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”_

The frown on Thranduil’s face faded away as a look of determination took its place. He wiped his mouth with his napkin, set the cloth down, and whistled a wordless tune. The bird that had perched on the back of Thranduil’s chair tilted its head, listening as Thranduil tried to shift from regular to Throseltongue whistling. 

With a wince, Thranduil shook his head and the melody died. Bard wanted to hold his hand, he wanted to encourage Thranduil to try again by pressing a kiss into his hair and murmuring into his ear, but he wasn’t sure Thranduil was ready for public displays of affection. He wasn’t sure if he was ready, either, to be honest, so he smiled at Thranduil and nodded as encouragingly as he could manage. 

“Don’t patronise me,” Thranduil muttered. 

“I’m not.” 

The bird hopped from the chair to the table. It looked up at Thranduil and sang a song. _“You speak like us more often when you look at us,”_ it said, _“so look at me and try again!”_

Thranduil frowned, but after a minute of glaring at the bird he did try again. 

_“Infuriating bird,”_ he warbled in a low tone, the musical equivalent to a growl. 

Bard grinned. _“You did it, Thran,”_ he whistled back. He nearly laughed when Thranduil gaped at him, eyes wide and mouth open. _“Now, remember how it felt… and try to tap into that when---”_

“It’s always an accident!” Thranduil snapped. “I try and I try, but… it’s always an accident.” 

Deciding the risk was worth it, Bard reached out and squeezed Thranduil’s forearm. “You’re going to get better,” he assured Thranduil, his voice quiet and private. “It’s going to come, easier and on purpose.” 

When he tried to pull his hand away he was stopped by Thranduil’s hand. Thranduil gave Bard’s fingers a gentle squeeze and then he turned his attention to his meal. Bard watched him, he watched Thranduil’s gaze moving from his salad to the bird. He smiled, experiencing a mixture of hope and delight. He was still thrilled that he met another Throselmouth and that something more-than-platonic was developing between them only increased the intensity of that feeling; he was hopeful that Thranduil felt the same way and he was also hopeful (though certain) that Thranduil would master control of the language soon.


	8. Chapter 8

The lessons continued---as did Thranduil’s frustration. Bard tried to be as helpful and supportive as he could; he explained the process (or his approximation of a process) every time Thranduil asked about it, he sent light-hearted and playful messages by thrush, and he listened any time Thranduil wanted to practice. He practiced a lot, and as Bard expected, he did improve. Thranduil found that if he was looking at one of the little birds, Throseltongue came more easily. If Bard was the only one whistling, it wasn’t guaranteed that Thranduil could reply. But, they weren’t giving up and when they weren’t teaching or grading (or sparing a minute for stolen kisses) they were focused on helping Thranduil practice his communication with thrushes. 

With final exams approaching, Bard was glad he did not have to worry about preparing his students for taking their OWLs and NEWTs, since those tests were for fifth and seventh year students, respectively. His attentions (and concern) were focused on the next ceremony to strengthen the castle’s protective spells; he was scheduled to participate in the Beltane ritual and he was both curious and anxious about the event. Not having to help his students ready themselves for the standardised exams meant he could investigate what could be involved in the spells that would help to keep Hogwarts safe. He looked at a few books, when he had the time, but found nothing helpful or descriptive. He tried to get information out of Elrond, but the librarian was vague on the subject of the Beltane ritual. Elrond believed there was nothing for Bard to do in preparation, and while Bard was glad to learn that there was nothing he needed to study or memorise he wished he could have a more detailed account of what would be expected of him. 

He also tried to talk to Thranduil about it, but it seemed like Thranduil was also feeling some sort of stress about the event. Thranduil, too, was participating, and he’d been a part of one of the rituals before, so Bard didn’t understand why he was worked up about it. 

“It’s different, this time,” Thranduil said as they walked the corridors the night of the twenty-ninth, the night before the day of the ritual. He shrugged and put his hands in the pockets of his robes. “It won’t be anything you can’t handle, though. I don’t think.” 

“Will it be something you can’t handle?” Bard asked. “Why are you---”

“It will be different.” 

Bard sighed. Thranduil rarely said anything else on the subject, and he knew that pushing would only make Thranduil irritable. Wanting to enjoy their time alone---even if they were on patrol for unruly students---Bard pushed his questions about the Beltane event out of his mind and settled his hand on Thranduil’s lower back, where it curved just a little (and where Bard’s hand seemed to fit perfectly). 

Relaxing into the touch, Thranduil brushed against Bard’s side as he moved closer; Bard smiled and whistled. 

_“I like these nights.”_

Thranduil chuckled. He nudged Bard with his hip. “You like working late, waiting for students to sneak out and break the rules?” he inquired. 

_“I like any night I get to spend time with you,”_ Bard replied, still in Throseltongue. 

“It’s very frustrating when you show off like that,” Thranduil muttered after another light nudge with his hip. 

Bard smiled. “You’re going to get it,” he murmured. “You are clever and you’ve been practicing. Soon you’ll be whistling and singing along with the birds without thinking about it.” 

He patted his hand against Thranduil’s back and continued to walk with him along the corridor outside of some of the classrooms. No one appeared to be in any of the rooms, so Thranduil suggested they head to the Astronomy Tower next as it was a common place for students to go when looking to have romantic meetings and other sorts of illicit gatherings. It was a good suggestion and Bard was willing to walk up there, but before they could go any further he pulled Thranduil into his arms and kissed him. 

“What---”

Bard’s lips brushed Thranduil’s again and both of his hands landed on his hips. Thranduil sighed but it was a pleasant, relaxed exhalation; he nudged his nose against Bard’s and sought another kiss. 

“It’s dangerous out here,” Thranduil whispered. “Someone might see.” 

“Ashamed to be seen with the potions teacher?” Bard teased. 

With a roll of his eyes, Thranduil gripped Bard’s belt and pulled him in close. “Hardly,” he murmured. “But, it wouldn’t do any good to have our students spreading rumours about us.” 

“And we still have an Astronomy Tower to inspect,” Bard added between brief kisses. 

“And dormitories to check,” Thranduil added. He pulled back enough to turn and rest his forehead against Bard’s temple. “Merlin… this has been unexpected.” 

Bard smiled. “But not unpleasant?”

“No, definitely not.” 

“Maybe after the Beltane rites, we can have a drink or a late meal together,” Bard suggested. As the words left his lips, Thranduil stilled, not withdrawing but not moving either; he studied the surprisingly pinched expression on Thranduil’s face. “Or… not?”

Thranduil shook himself, a slight vibration that took the stillness from his body but not the seriousness from his face. “You might not want to after the ritual,” he explained, “as the event can be very intense.” 

“Elrond said---”

“Elrond does not know what he’s talking about,” Thranduil muttered. He reached up and put his hands on Bard’s shoulders. “Just know that I will not hold any of it against you.”

Bard frowned. “What?”

“There are some reports of moments of clarity, during the rites,” Thranduil said, almost looking into Bard’s eyes but not quite. “I myself have seen… well, both times, it has been an eye-opening experience.” 

“What did you see?” Bard asked. “Was what you saw at Samhain different from… it was Imbolc, right?”

Shaking his head, Thranduil smiled a little bit. “I’ll tell you after the Beltane celebration,” he promised, “if you still want to know.” 

“Sounds good,” Bard murmured. He took one of Thranduil’s hands in his and gave it a squeeze. He wanted to know, but he could wait. “Now, shall I disillusion the pair of us so we can sneak up on the kids making out under the stars and take away points before they realise they’ve been caught? Or do you want to do the honours?” he asked. 

Thranduil grinned and pulled out his wand. He cast the spell on both of them, wordlessly, and the wet chill of disillusionment washed over Bard. It wasn’t true invisibility, but the charm made it subjects take on the appearance of what was behind them, as if they were painted over to blend into their surroundings. In the darkness on the tower, Bard knew the students wouldn’t see them unless they were looking very closely. If he studied the space directly in front of him, he could see Thranduil’s features underneath the illusion of the castle’s rocky walls. 

“Shall we?” Thranduil murmured. “I’m hoping there will be some Slytherins up there I can take points from.” 

“You sure know how to show me a good time,” Bard said, chuckling a little. 

“After the ritual, if you’re still interested, I’ll show you a better time,” Thranduil promised. 

Bard whistled, _“I’ll hold you to that.”_

Thranduil snorted. “Show off,” he muttered. 

Bard laughed and followed Thranduil down the corridor to one of the staircases that could set them on the correct path to the Astronomy Tower. It was difficult for Bard to imagine what could have happened during the rituals in which Thranduil had been a participant; whatever Thranduil had apparently seen had shaken him and made him cautious, but Bard couldn’t guess what it would be. He also couldn’t picture how a holiday ritual, something designed to strengthen the protective spells of the castle, could grant someone insight or present them with visions. It was supposed to be a spell to transfer the professors’ strengths to the castle’s wards, which were intended to protect its inhabitants, not to gift the professors with visions. 

“Shh,” Thranduil whispered. “We’re close, and I hear voices.” 

Bard rolled his eyes. 

“I saw that.” 

“You did not,” Bard muttered. 

“You’re disillusioned, not invisible,” Thranduil hissed. 

Bard chuckled. As they climbed up to the Astronomy Tower, he quieted and turned his attention to what sounded like a disagreement. It sounded as if a boy was in trouble with his date; he recognised the sound of verbal back-peddling, having done it once or twice (or more than that) in his life. 

Recognising Sigrid’s voice as the other half of the arguing couple was like a punch to his gut. It was Éomer, Bard realised, who was protesting and insisting he had good intentions, but Sigrid sounded furious. He sucked in a breath, preparing to march out onto the landing and give Éomer a piece of his mind; Thranduil, however, put a hand to his chest and shook his head. 

“You are unbelievable!” Sigrid exclaimed. “You’re going to give me ‘But, I love you’ as a reason I should take off my clothes?”

“Sig…” Éomer said, sighing. “That isn’t what I---”

“I told you I don’t want to sleep with you,” Sigrid interrupted, her voice much calmer. “And you said you wouldn’t push.” 

“But, everyone---”

Sigrid snorted, the sound without even an ounce of mirth. “No.” 

“Where are you going?” Éomer asked. 

“Back to my house. Goodnight, Éomer,” Sigrid replied, seconds before she appeared in the doorway. 

With a firm touch to Bard’s sternum, Thranduil pushed him back against the wall. They barely moved out of the way before Sigrid stormed past them. The sound of Éomer knocking something over, either by fist or by foot, could be heard from outside, and then he, too, was storming past them. 

Bard exhaled slowly. A wash of warmth over him, starting at the top of his head, as the charm keeping them hidden was dissolved. He turned to look at Thranduil. A myriad of thoughts were running through his mind---anger and disgust towards Éomer, pride and protection towards Sigrid---but his voice was unwilling to share them. He swallowed hard and looked down the stairs. The hand on his chest kept him still, kept him from chasing after his daughter, and after a look into Thranduil’s face it seemed like Thranduil understood that, as if that was the reason Thranduil kept his hand anchored there. 

“She’s a good witch,” Thranduil murmured. “She seems fine, if a little ticked off. She’ll vent to her friends and probably kick Mister Rohanson to the curb.” 

“That little cretin,” Bard grumbled. 

“You raised her to be strong and independent. She is no pushover.” 

Bard smiled through his anger at Éomer. “Aye, she’s strong-willed,” he murmured, thinking fondly of his oldest child. “Determined and clever, too.” 

“Mister Rohanson’s young and hot-headed and he probably feels like he should be doing whatever his peers are doing,” Thranduil said, continuing to calm Bard down with his words. “Luckily, Sigrid can see through that and decide for herself what she’d like to do, how she’d like to spend her time.” 

Bard nodded. 

“And if you take out your frustration on him…”

Bard sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” 

“Take comfort in your daughter’s strength,” Thranduil advised. “And, if you have a chance to deduct points from Mister Rohanson at a later date, for something unrelated, you can take pleasure in taking a couple additional points from him on her behalf.” 

Bard smiled again. “Devious.” 

“I come from a long line of Slytherins,” Thranduil murmured. 

With a chuckle, Bard turned his head and kissed the corner of Thranduil’s mouth. He took Thranduil’s hand and tugged him outside. Thranduil asked him what he was planning, but Bard only smiled and tipped his head back to look up at the sky. 

“Stargazing? Really?” Thranduil asked, even though he, too, was tipping his head back to observe the stars. 

“Oh, shush,” Bard murmured. 

Thranduil chuckled. He moved behind Bard and wrapped his arms around Bard’s chest. “What do you like about stargazing?” he asked, his mouth near Bard’s ear and his voice creating delicious vibrations that ran along his neck and down his spine. “Feeling insignificant?” 

“Maybe,” Bard said. “But sometimes, it’s just that they’re beautiful. We couldn’t see them from our flat in Ottawa. But here, you can see them so clearly. It’s incredible, how many there are.” 

“Do you know the constellations?”

“Some,” Bard replied. 

With a few gentle nudges, Thranduil moved Bard over to the railing. He pointed up to the sky and in a quiet voice, he explained the constellations visible to them and the stories behind the patterns of stars. It was easy to lean back against Thranduil and drift along, listening to the stories, but it was the soft tone of Thranduil’s voice that soothed Bard the most. 

Eventually, Thranduil noticed that Bard’s attention wasn’t on the stars. A nip to Bard’s earlobe was followed by a loud raspberry to Bard’s neck. Bard laughed and turned in Thranduil’s arms. He tried to return the favour, but wasn’t successful. After settling for placing a couple of kisses upon Thranduil’s lips, he leaned back; he was pleased to have his kisses returned with one initiated by Thranduil. It was a little cool, but wrapped up in each other, neither of them minded. Bard’s memories of being on the Astronomy Tower---innocent moments of teenaged romance---paled in comparison to the moments he was sharing with Thranduil. Even the end of the kisses, brought about when Thranduil eased away from him, was sweet and worth remembering for the way he smiled at Bard with lowered lashes and flushed cheeks. 

“We should go,” Thranduil murmured. “Tomorrow’s a big day and you need your sleep.” 

“The ritual isn’t until---”

“Just before midnight and will last several hours. You should nap after your classes,” Thranduil advised. “I’m not sure what is involved this time, but with the Samhain and Imbolc rituals there was an expenditure of energy that left me quite drained the following day.” 

“I’m guessing a bale fire,” Bard said quietly. “Or dancing around a maypole?”

Thranduil rolled his eyes. “Merlin, I hope not,” he muttered. 

“You don’t dance? How disappointing,” Bard murmured. “Well, at least now I know not to take you dancing for our first date.” 

“That sort of dancing is perfectly fine---enjoyable even, with the right partner,” Thranduil replied, “but what is not fine is prancing around a pole, carrying ribbons, with the rest of the faculty.” 

Chuckling, Bard nodded. He wasn’t sure he would be ready to see his colleagues making merry around a maypole, but decided that as long as a fertility rite wasn’t in the works---as Beltane ceremonies were historically about new growth, and fertility was included in the view of growth---it would be fine. 

“All right. Any more advice for me?”

“Eat a good meal,” Thranduil said. “But, in all honesty, it will not be anything you can’t handle. I hope… I hope the ceremony shows you something about yourself that you can enjoy,” he whispered, curving his hands over Bard’s shoulders. 

After nodding, Bard asked, “Is that why you won’t tell me what you saw? You didn’t enjoy it?”

“No, I did, but I do not wish to colour your experience or your decisions by sharing mine with you beforehand,” Thranduil said, his voice still quiet. 

“Thran…” 

Thranduil’s serious expression began to melt. He leaned in and kissed Bard’s temple. “After tomorrow night,” he whispered. “All right?” 

Bard nodded and moved to catch Thranduil’s lips for another kiss. Thranduil’s hands slid up from his back and tangled in the hair at the back of his head, loosening the messy bun he found there; Bard’s hands slid over Thranduil’s hips and found a place to rest in the back folds of his robes. He smiled and felt Thranduil smile in return. 

“All right,” Bard murmured. “We should finish up our rounds, then.” 

After stealing one more kiss, Thranduil nodded. 

&&&

The ritual was taking place on the Quidditch pitch. Bard found it amusing, but he didn’t say anything about it as he followed the other professors out to the expanse of land. He understood that they needed to conduct the protective spells on the grounds and that there were many creatures and beings who could interrupt the spellwork in the forest; he also understood that the stands would protect them from the eyes of any students who were breaking rules by being outside that late. But, it felt strange to be holding their interpretation of ancient rituals on the sporting field. He smothered a little laugh and focused his attentions on following Elrond and Bilbo out to the space where Minerva and Pomona were waiting. 

“Welcome,” Minerva called out to them. “Find a place around the bonfire,” she instructed. “Bard, come stand near me, at the altar.” 

Bard nodded. Elrond smiled, clapping a friendly hand to his shoulder as he walked past, and Bard returned the gesture with a small smile of his own. Minerva had told him that he’d be leading some of the proceedings---and that it wasn’t necessary to study beforehand---so her request wasn’t unexpected. But her putting a crown of woven twigs and vines upon his head was unexpected; he tried to ask her about it, but she patted his shoulder and turned to tell Bilbo and Elrond to light the candles with the torches that marked their spell-space and set them floating around the circle. 

It wasn’t until all of the candles were lit that Thranduil joined them. His brow was furrowed and his eyes were on the ground; his shoulders were tense and any relaxation he’d achieved the night before was lost to the thoughts he was entertaining.

“My apologies, Headmistress,” Thranduil said quietly. “I was detained.” 

“It’s fine,” Minerva said in reply. She raised her hand and motioned to him. “Come to the altar.” 

When Thranduil looked at Bard, a small (but tense) smile curved his lips. Bard smiled back. Wanting to reach out to him, but knowing it wasn’t a good time if Thranduil was looking to avoid any fuss, Bard kept silent; he tucked his hands in his coat to keep himself from seeking a connection. Minerva stepped between them, a crown of antlers in her hands. As she placed the crown of twigs and vines on Bard’s head, she placed the antlers on Thranduil’s head. It was a heavier crown, and it slipped to one side; she adjusted it carefully and stepped back with a sniff of approval. When Minerva moved to the other side of the table, away from Bard and Thranduil, Bard’s smile stretched into a grin. 

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed. “What?” he asked. 

“It’s a good look for you, Thran,” Bard teased. 

Thranduil huffed. “I look good in everything.” 

Minerva rolled her eyes. “Oh, honestly,” she muttered under her breath. 

Bard laughed and looked away. He watched as Pomona waved a burning bundle of herbs around the circle the floating candles marked; the air smelled of smoke and wood from the torches, but there was something green, something almost floral, on the air that Bard attributed to Pomona’s efforts. As she completed the circle, Elrond set off in the opposite direction but on the same path. He appeared to be sprinkling a white grain along the ground, underneath the candles, and when he finished, he announced that their area for the ritual was marked. 

“Good, good,” she replied. She looked from Thranduil to Bard, smiling a little, and she nodded. “All right. The pair of you, stay there. Elrond and Bilbo, light the bonfire, please.” 

The fire burned quickly, growing to its full height with crackles and sparks. Smoke billowed up into the starry sky; it blocked Bard’s view of the castle and drew his attention up to the moon. It had only started waning, so it was still full and bright in the sky, and its cool light mingled with the warm glow of the fire. 

Pomona brought the burning herbs to the altar. She waved the smoking bundle around Minerva, as if to coat her in its essence, before doing the same to Bard and Thranduil. The air smelled of more spice and greenery, the incense temporarily overpowering the scent of the burning wood. Pomona set the still-smoking bundle down in the white ceramic bowl on the table and moved away from them to join Elrond and Bilbo next to the fire. 

“Very well. Is everyone set to begin?” Minerva asked. She looked at everyone, one by one, waiting for their nods. Bard nodded when she looked at him; Thranduil’s nod was a bit hesitant, but he seemed determined to participate, Bard thought, judging by his strong stance and clenched fists. Minerva smiled as she received Thranduil’s gesture and turned to the rest of the group. She held up her wand and spoke again. “In perfect love and perfect trust, I conjure our circle of power. Let only truth and joy remain in this space as we cast out all evil. This circle is a shield against the forces that would disrupt our ritual; this circle is an entryway to the world between the worlds where gods and mortals exist,” she said, as a shimmer of light erupted from her wand and trailed along the path the grains had made in the grass. “I consecrate this space in the names of those who protect and guide us. The circle is cast, so mote it be.” 

“So mote it be,” Elrond echoed, followed by Bilbo and Pomona. 

Thranduil cleared his throat. “So mote it be.” 

When Thranduil turned to look at Bard, an eyebrow raised, Bard joined in the blessing and repeated the phrase. “So mote it be,” he said, his voice quiet. A shiver travelled up his spine. He looked to Thranduil, but Thranduil had turned back and was focused on the bale fire in the middle of the circle. 

“Tonight, we petition the powers that be,” Minerva said. “We ask them to watch over our school and those in our care. We ask them to aid us in protecting our home, our place of knowledge, because we desire this place to remain a sanctuary. 

“We do not ask for this gift lightly and will provide our own strengths to the wards that protect us,” she continued. “By the end of this year, every member of the staff will have contributed their strengths to the castle’s enchantments. Loyalty, love, intelligence, kindness, bravery, and many other attributes will have been added to the grounds, and tonight, we continue to add to the wards with the gifts that Bard and Thranduil will donate to the cause. This we give to the powers that be to preserve our will, to preserve our home.” 

The words were not like their usual spells---witches and wizards rarely participated in rituals anymore, the old traditions lost to time---and the intentions of which Minerva spoke and the words she used left Bard slightly awed. He wondered what would happen, what he would experience, and he also knew few in their world would ever see anything like what he was about to witness. 

“We now celebrate the most ancient of magics, the magic of joining,” she announced. 

At her announcement, Bard blinked. He looked around; no one seemed surprised by her words. He’d been assured that nothing untoward would happen, but… _joining?_ That sounded a little like bonding or mating or---

“Relax,” Thranduil whispered. “It’s a joining of magic.” 

Willing away his sudden concern, Bard exhaled slowly. Thranduil reached out and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back in silent reply, before turning his focus to Minerva and the ritual. 

Minerva and Elrond waved their wands. Words appeared, as if written in light, in front of Bard and Thranduil. Thranduil’s words were greenish gold in colour, while Bard’s were red and coppery. 

“You first,” Thranduil murmured. 

Bard nodded. He coughed quietly and looked over the words before him. Once he saw that there was nothing untoward in their meaning, he inhaled a deep breath and spoke. 

“I am the earth, and new life grows here each year,” he said. “Water is my blood, air is my breath, and fire is my spirit. I give you honour.” 

Thranduil wove his fingers with Bard’s as he gave voice to the words in front of him. “I am the stag, the energy of life. I am the mighty oak that grows in the forest. I give you honour.” 

Bard wasn’t sure what he was doing, but all of a sudden two words---a spell he recognised but rarely used---came together in his mind. He was struck by the desire to speak them, to wave his wand and channel that power, and he wanted to look to Minerva or Thranduil to ask if he could, but the desire strengthened and he was speaking before he could stop himself. He raised his wand and spoke the words, words he hadn’t used since the war; there was no fear or necessity in him as he spoke them, though, only certainty and calm. 

_“Cave inimicum,”_ he said. 

_“Cave inimicum,”_ Thranduil echoed. 

Warmth was building up inside of him. It should have been disconcerting, especially when the fire in front of him was growing, too, as if in sympathy or reflection, but if it was any one thing in particular it was reassuring. 

He closed his eyes against the brightness of the bale fire. He smiled as he felt the spell’s power leaving him, dissipating into the air around the grounds. 

_“Salvio hexia,” _Thranduil said.__

__Bard repeated the spell, as Thranduil had repeated his. _“Salvio hexia.”__ _

__The warmth built up inside of him again. Before it departed for the sky, Bard felt Thranduil’s hand tighten on his. He returned the gesture with a squeeze of his own. His ears registered gasps from the people around them, but he paid them little mind. He felt too comfortable and too strong and too wrapped up in the magical power swirling inside of and around him to worry about anything._ _

__When he opened his eyes, he was facing Thranduil who was facing him. He looked into Thranduil’s face, wondering how and when they’d moved, but Thranduil started to glow in front of him; he glowed a golden tone, the magic seeming to be pouring out of him. He raised a hand to the aura around Thranduil and found that he was glowing, too._ _

__“What---”_ _

__Thranduil took his other hand. A circuit between them was completed with the simple gesture. Bard sucked in a sharp breath. The power running through them was dizzying; he had no idea where it came from, but it was _strong_. He fought against the urge to moan and lost. It felt so good to be surrounded by that power. _ _

__Bard closed his eyes as he started to sway. He dropped to his knees and was dimly aware of Thranduil following. The power increased for a moment and as he heard Thranduil’s soft whine he saw glimpses of moments---nothing concrete, but all of it wondrous and full of potential---behind his eyelids. He hummed. The power left him, melting into the ground beneath him; as he opened his eyes, he sensed that the power had left Thranduil, too, and he confirmed that by seeing the glow fading from Thranduil’s skin._ _

__“Wow,” Bard whispered. “Is it always like that?”_ _

__Thranduil shook his head. The group around them cheered, but Bard only wanted to look at Thranduil. The magical light was gone, but he looked flushed and exhilarated and amazed; he was a feast for the eyes and Bard wanted to be the only one to devour him._ _

__“Gentlemen? Are you well?”_ _

__Bard tore his attention away from Thranduil long enough to see Minerva standing next to them. He nodded and slowly rose to his feet, helping Thranduil rise as well. When they were both standing, Bard felt the urge to sit down; he couldn’t keep his knees completely locked and it seemed like Thranduil understood because he pressed his side against Bard’s body. Together they managed to stay standing, but apart it would have been impossible._ _

__Bilbo was beaming at them. He approaching, chattering excitedly about the ritual, but his words washed over Bard without completely registering. Minerva must have closed the circle and ended the ceremony, because she and Pomona were talking about taking some of the fire to the borders of the property, and Elrond was agreeing that he would help. Bard understood what was happening, but contributing to the conversation was beyond him. He was both buzzing with energy and desperately in need of rest; he felt like he was being pulled in two different directions when all he wanted to do was stay with Thranduil._ _

__“I wouldn’t be surprised if the students felt that,” Pomona said after coming to the table. She smiled at Bard. “A little spell-drunk, Bard?” she asked._ _

__“Maybe,” he admitted._ _

__“To bed, both of you,” Minerva decided. She smiled. “You two have very compatible magics,” she told them. “It was a gift to witness. Thank you for participating tonight.”_ _

__Bard nodded. He heard Thranduil murmur in response, though he couldn’t make sense of the words Thranduil chose._ _

__When Minerva called for two of the castle’s house elves, Bard wasn’t sure what she was doing. But when she told Twinklie and Sugar to take Bard and Thranduil to their quarters and bring them a light meal after getting them settled, he understood. He wanted to protest---and insist that they go to the same place---but Sugar was already taking his hand in both of hers. The pull of side-along apparition started around his navel and a moment later he was being uncomfortably squeezed through time and space._ _

__He was deposited on his bed, thanks to Sugar’s own magic. He closed his eyes. He heard the cracking sounds that signified Sugar’s departure and return, and knew she left him food, but he was asleep before he could even consider eating it._ _


	9. Chapter 9

Bard woke up the next day with a smile on his face. He kept his eyes closed, replaying the images that had been percolating in his mind as he slept; they’d been the glimpses of pleasantries he’d seen during the ritual, he was certain, after his subconscious had had some time to process them. They’d been delicious---stretches of pale skin under his hands and mouth---but they’d also been comforting and reassuring---smiles on the pillow next to his, a warm hand wrapped up in his own, and a home full of laughter and family---and he was sure it was a good thing. He was sure he wanted to pursue those images, help them to be real, and he knew he had to find Thranduil to make that happen. 

It wasn’t until he couldn’t find Thranduil anywhere in the castle, as if he were hiding on purpose, that he remembered how Thranduil suggested Bard might not want to date him after the ritual, in case any truths were revealed. His truths---if that’s what they were---had revealed what he already knew, that he wanted to get closer to Thranduil; Bard was concerned that Thranduil’s truths had revealed something else, and maybe that was why Thranduil had stipulated waiting until after Beltane. But Thranduil had continued to kiss him and had continued to reach out to him so he doubted that what Thranduil had seen directly opposed what he saw. 

He dispatched a few thrushes with messages for Thranduil, but they came back either saying they could not find him or that there was no return message. When Bard pressed for more information, whistling about Thranduil’s location, he learned that Thranduil had been in the Room of Requirement, though he couldn’t imagine why Thranduil would need to go there. Students used it---he remembered from his own time as a student that there was a place everyone hid what they weren’t supposed to have, what they broke, what went wrong---and apart from a few special uses, it really didn’t serve much purpose. It was one of the many mysteries of Hogwarts and it was also a mystery, Bard thought, that Thranduil had any business in there. 

The next day, Bard tried again with the thrushes. It was Sunday and Bard knew that Thranduil often spent time in the library on Sundays if he wasn’t locked away grading homework assignments. He’d gone there several times since their friendship transformed into more, looking for the elusive bookworm in his natural habitat. 

Every thrush sent to the library returned with the news that Thranduil was not there. 

On Monday, Bard was sure he would see Thranduil at breakfast. He was disappointed. He tried to find Thranduil before lunch, but Thranduil taught his classes and then seemed to disappear. He reappeared at the evening’s staff meeting. He received the praise given to both him and Bard for making the wards that much stronger with their compatible magics, he stayed to discuss what examiners would be coming to the school to administer the OWLs and NEWTs, and then he disappeared again before Bard could extricate himself from a discussion with Horace about what brand of cauldron to order for the new year. 

Aware that his behavior was bordering on inappropriate, Bard withdrew and stopped actively searching for Thranduil. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday were spent hoping Thranduil would approach him, but he never did. It was frustrating, and he had to fight against the need to go running through the castle looking for Thranduil, but he managed it. 

Friday evening, when one of his thrushes told him that Thranduil was back in the Room of Requirement, Bard gave into his growing impatience and decided to wait him out of his hiding spot; he went to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls ballet, on the seventh floor, and leaned against the wall next to the ridiculous (although historical) art. He was hurt, but he was more concerned than anything else. He needed to see Thranduil, needed to tell him what he’d seen, needed to know that Thranduil felt the magical power the way he had. He needed Thranduil to stop hiding. 

After a hour, Bard’s knees hurt and his frustration was overtaking his concern. He sighed, tugged his hair free of his covered elastic band, and started pacing in front of the place in the stone wall where the door usually appeared. 

_I want to see Thranduil,_ he thought. _I want to see him and tell him that he’s being ridiculous. I want to love him._

He stopped short. Love him? Really? 

He ran a hand through his messy curls as he considered his thoughts. He’d been curious about Thranduil from the first time they met. They’d become friends, slowly, and Bard enjoyed Thranduil’s company more than he did the company of anyone else on the staff. He’d grown to trust Thranduil and to look forward to their time together. The first time they kissed in the library had been wondrous---a combination of hot, arousing, sweet, and addictive---and every secreted kiss after that had only increased his desire for Thranduil. Teasing Thranduil made his heart feel lighter, relieving some of the burdens it had carried for so long, and shared laughter between them was even better at that endeavor. Not being able to find Thranduil was frustrating and sad and it hurt. He wanted to share what he’d felt, he wanted to know what Thranduil had experienced. He wanted to reassure Thranduil that nothing would have to change, even though it felt like a lot had changed between them. But, mostly, he wanted to see that Thranduil was all right. He wanted to see Thranduil. 

Maybe he was well on his way to loving Thranduil. 

He shrugged. It wasn’t as startling as he’d originally thought it to be. He continued pacing and thinking, even though he knew the chances of the Room of Requirement granting him entrance were slim to none. Unless Thranduil extended the invitation to him, the room would most likely remain unplottable. Minerva had complained about that before, during a staff meeting after several first years had gone missing. They’d been fine, although full of sweets and a little bit ill from their efforts, but they’d been in the Room of Requirement for three days before anyone considered they were in that magical space. Elrond had tried to get into the room, but it had remained invisible until Minerva appeared, paced three times, and shouted at the blank wall. Bringing Minerva to the seventh floor would draw unappreciated attention to Thranduil and his antics, so it was not an option. He resigned himself to being denied by the magical room and having to wait for Thranduil to leave under his own power. 

He had not expected the door to appear. Its appearance hadn’t registered at first, he was so focused on calming down and waiting for Thranduil, but when it did, he leapt across the hall and put his hand on the doorknob. Opening the door was a slower procedure, since he did not want to alarm or startle Thranduil; he peeked into the space as soon as he could, looking for Thranduil, and when the gap was large enough, he slipped inside and continued his search. 

Thranduil was sitting on a pile of cushions and blankets, in front of a fire. A book was in his hands, but he wasn’t reading it. He was staring at the hearth, watching the flames dance. Bard thought he looked sad, but he didn’t know why, and he was struck by the desire to go forward and hug Thranduil close. 

When he realised he wasn’t alone, Thranduil struggled to his feet. Bard tried not to smile as he wrestled with the pillows, but he failed. Thranduil glared at him and smoothed out his hair and robes. When Bard’s smile turned into a little grin, he kicked at the nearest pillow. Bard laughed. Thranduil growled. 

“The room let me in,” Bard replied, laughing leaking a little from his voice. “I was worried about you.” 

“Why?”

Bard looked at him, hoping he was projecting enough fondness and annoyance in his facial expression to get his message across. Thranduil ducked his head, smiling a little, and then he nodded. 

“I’m fine, as you can see, so---”

“I saw you,” Bard blurted out. It hadn’t been a part of his plan, but being dismissed had given him a sense of urgency and inspired him to share his thoughts as quickly as possible. “During the… ceremony. I saw you. Merlin, Thran. I woke up Saturday morning and all I could think about was you and you were so hard to track down and… all I wanted to say was that I saw you and it was perfect.” 

Thranduil’s cheeks were flushed when he finished. Bard thought he’d said enough, but Thranduil shook his head. “I’m hardly perfect,” Thranduil said. 

Bard took a few steps towards him but stopped before he was close enough to touch Thranduil. He didn’t want to trap him, didn’t want to make him (more) nervous. “I know,” Bard murmured. “I know that I’m not perfect, either. But us, together? That is---will be---good.” He paused and shrugged. “If you want it, that is.” 

“What if---” Thranduil broke off and shook his head again. 

“What did you see, Thran?”

“The first time, I was Headmaster. You were in my office. We were… laughing. And then I was watching you brew potions in your classroom. It was all fairly innocent, I suppose. But, I liked the way you looked at me,” Thranduil said, his voice quiet and almost unsteady. “I was curious about you before, because Minerva brought you in to teach Potions and I didn’t understand why she’d hire someone so seemingly under-qualified on paper, but… I didn’t understand why I’d picture you---or us, rather---laughing. I don’t do that. Usually.” 

Bard nodded, comprehending a bit better why Thranduil had warmed up to him during the second half of the first term. 

“And when you should have annoyed me, you intrigued me. You’re a bit like a puzzle, Bard,” Thranduil said. “In February, I saw… more than I’d expected to see. And I understood why I was drawn to you. But if I’d told you what I’d seen I might have…” 

“Jinxed it?” Bard asked when Thranduil trailed off. 

Thranduil shrugged. “Or seemed too soppy and romantic. Prone to flights of fancy.” 

“That wouldn’t have scared me off,” Bard assured him. 

Thranduil rolled his eyes. “No? Because if you’d come to me, claiming you’d had some sort of spell-induced vision of us in our marriage bed or of us in our home with grandchildren in our laps, I’d have been convinced you were mad.” 

“You saw some of what I saw,” Bard murmured. 

“If that sounds familiar…” 

“Is it a problem? That I like the look of us growing old together?”

Thranduil made a quiet whining sound, so faint that Bard barely heard it. His eyes widened and he blinked a few times, looking uncertain as he studied Bard. After a long pause, Thranduil asked, “You… does that mean you want to grow old with me?”

“Yes,” Bard replied, without hesitation. 

The images had been too appealing to ignore, but coming to that decision was due to more than that one experience. It was made up of the way Thranduil’s body melted against him when they were together, the smile on Thranduil’s face when Bard joined him at the staff table, and the not-so-secret times Thranduil watched him when he thought Bard wasn’t paying attention; it was made of the moments Thranduil made himself available or offered Bard support, and it was finished by Thranduil showing up to join him in the ceremony, even though Thranduil had been anxious that the ritual might have changed everything between them for the worst. 

Thranduil put his fingers up to his lips. Bard took advantage of his moment of contemplation and closed the gap between them. He took Thranduil’s free hand into both of his. He waited. 

“Why?” Thranduil asked. 

“Because.” 

Thranduil snorted. 

Bard grinned. “I’m not proposing, not yet,” he assured Thranduil. “Just giving us some time to get used to the idea. I thought we might take the long way around, see if it suits us.”

“That would be… good.” 

“Good. Now, what have you been up to all by yourself?” 

“Trying to read,” Thranduil admitted. “It hasn’t been going very well.” 

“Maybe it’ll go better if you have some company,” Bard suggested. “Quiet company that might just want to take a nap after a hard week of classes and worrying about a ridiculous wizard who worked himself up into a panic.” 

“I did no such thing.” 

Bard kissed Thranduil’s cheek. “Sure, Thran,” he murmured. “Come on. Let’s get cosy.” 

“Seriously?”

With a little grin, Bard moved around Thranduil, releasing his hand as he walked, and he kicked off his boots before he lowered himself down to the bedding piled up on the floor. He groaned as he stretched out, pausing only to pull a book out from under his thigh; he tossed the book onto the floor and grinned as a platter of snacks appeared on a tray. He silently thanked the room and grabbed a couple of slices of apple from the tray. 

“I think the room wants us to be comfortable,” Bard said with a waggle of his eyebrows. 

Thranduil rolled his eyes, but he was shrugging out of his outer robes and joining Bard before anything else could be said. 

They settled into a comfortable reclining position, Bard on his back and Thranduil curled up at his side. At first, Thranduil was turned away from Bard and reading a book. Bard watched him read for a bit, enjoying the moment, but he drifted into a light sleep after a long while of listening to Thranduil turning pages and his steady breathing.

When he came to his senses, Thranduil was sleeping on his chest. His exhalations sounded like little snuffles; Bard hid his grin in Thranduil's hair. This side of Thranduil was softer, unprotected by his stiff exterior, and Bard was honoured that he was allowed to see it.

He listened to Thranduil breathing, savouring their closeness. Eventually, he grew restless, and in order to keep himself from waking Thranduil (either with intent or without) he pulled out his wand and tested his memory by casting little spells he'd learned as a child.

By the time Thranduil woke up, there were little twinkling lights drifting above and around them. Thranduil sucked in a sharp breath, tucking his face into Bard's clothed chest. Bard brought his hand up and cupped the back of his head. They’d been there for hours, but it wasn’t enough; Bard knew they had to return to their lives but he hoped they’d be able to return to this place, this sort of moment, as often as their schedules allowed.

Fingertips drummed against his chest, and then Bard heard Thranduil ask, “What are you thinking?” 

Bard turned his head away from the childish (but beautiful) spells he’d cast. The little lights, like stars in the sky, winked down at them, casting them both in sparkles of light where the glow of the fire could not reach them. 

“Just that we’ve been gone for a while, and I should probably send a message to Sigrid if we’re planning on staying here much longer,” he replied. 

“And what will you tell her?” Thranduil inquired. “That you’ve shirked your duties and have decided to disappear with me into the Room of Requirement?”

“Something like that, yes,” Bard murmured. He kissed Thranduil’s brow. “Aren’t you worried about Legolas or Tauriel needing to find you?”

Thranduil snorted. “Our relationship… is different from yours with your children,” he said in a quiet voice. He sighed. “Still… you have made a good point.” 

He rolled away from Bard’s body and reached for his wand. He cast a patronus charm, its corporeal form a large, male elk, and as it stamped its hooves, he gave it instructions. “Go to the Headmistress, tell her that Professor Bowdyn and I are fine. We are in the Room of Requirement… conducting important research.” 

As the elk rushed from the room, through the wall, Bard laughed at Thranduil’s declaration. Thranduil turned, leaning over him, and Bard looked up into his face as his laugh faded into a chuckle and then into a big smile. 

“Important research?” Bard asked. 

Thranduil shrugged. “Seemed more tactful than saying we were going to spend the night snogging.” 

“Is that what we have planned?”

“Isn’t it?”

Bard grinned. He reached up and cupped the side of Thranduil’s face in his hand. His skin was soft, as it always was, and he loved the feel of it. “I could be persuaded,” he whispered. 

“Good,” Thranduil murmured. He leaned down and kissed Bard’s cheek before kissing his lips. Bard hummed and returned to lying on his back; Thranduil slipped over him without breaking the kiss and Bard wrapped his arms around him in reply. 

They kissed slowly, enjoying the moment and not racing past it for more. Bard kept his hands on Thranduil’s hips; he didn’t let his fingers wander no matter how much he wanted to slide them under clothing and explore more silky smooth skin. Thranduil’s hands settled in Bard’s hair but didn’t stay there for long; they wandered to Bard’s chest and sides, teasing and comforting in turns. The pace was unhurried, unlike their kisses since the night in the library, and when Thranduil pulled back to rest his head upon Bard’s shoulder, Bard smiled and closed his eyes. 

“We’re doing this,” Thranduil whispered. 

Bard replied, “We have been doing this.” 

“Well, yes. I mean---”

“I know what you mean. And yes, we’re doing this,” he murmured. 

Slowly exhaling, Thranduil relaxed into Bard’s body. His fingers resumed their drumming against Bard’s chest. After a long (but comfortable) silence, Thranduil started to speak quietly, sharing little stories or snippets of his week that Bard had missed while Thranduil was being elusive; Bard listened attentively, filing away the important bits, and when it was his turn to share what else he’d been doing when he hadn’t been trying to find Thranduil, he spoke in a similarly quiet voice. There was no one around them to bother with loud voices, but their quiet suited the moment. 

&&&&&

Bard heard the birds singing--- _“Wake up! Wake up! You don’t want to be late!”_ \---and groaned. They’d been up late after the Leaving Feast, first talking but then enjoying more pleasurable pursuits. Minerva had given them the night off and they’d taken advantage of not having to patrol the corridors when students were celebrating the end of the term. As pleasant as it was, to lie in bed and luxuriate in laziness, he knew they had to get up if they were going to make it to breakfast, to the departure of the students from the school. He tried to roll onto his stomach but a heavy weight was on his chest, preventing him from moving much at all. Opening his eyes revealed a mess of blond hair. When he stroked his fingers through it, the weight shifted until a pair of silver eyes were looking back at him.

“Good morning,” Thranduil whispered. 

It had only been a month since their relationship solidified and it had only been a couple of weeks since they started spending the night together, but Bard knew he would never tire of the sight of Thranduil still soft with sleep. 

He smiled and brushed his fingers over Thranduil’s jaw and neck. “Morning,” he murmured. “Guess we better get moving?”

“Nuh uh,” Thranduil mumbled. 

He closed his eyes and snuggled back up to Bard’s body, arms and legs wrapping around his form as if he were the Giant Squid playing with his prey. Instead of being annoyed, Bard chuckled; he was becoming accustomed to Thranduil’s morning antics and he knew that it took a little while before Thranduil could function enough to leave the bed and get ready for the day. He liked being able to see Thranduil like this, his usual defences tucked away, and he liked the way Thranduil tried to keep him as close as possible. 

“Cado will come in soon, demanding breakfast,” Bard said. “And it’s the last day. We have to be ready.” 

“Ugh. Why? We don’t have to leave,” Thranduil uttered into Bard’s sternum. 

“No, but the kids will want to move back here. And then we are eventually going to---”

Thranduil’s head shot up. He winced at the sharp movement. “You’re leaving?” Thranduil asked. “When?”

“We’re going to my folks’ place for a month or so,” Bard said quietly. “I tried to tell you last night, but you… were a bit amourous.” 

Thranduil smirked as he remembered all that they’d been up to. “Yes, well, you showed up at the feast looking like you’d been working hard on your rust-bucket project, and I wanted to reward you,” he purred, going from sleepyhead to sexkitten in no time at all. “All greasy and---”

“You know, if you came down to the garage, you could christen the car with me,” Bard interrupted. 

“What?”

“We could put a _Muffliato_ on the door and then we could have our way with each other,” Bard explained. He smirked as Thranduil raised up on his hands and crawled up Bard’s body. “Maybe a couple of times. I’d like to see you stretched out on the hood of my gorgeously restored car and I’m sure you’d like to---”

Thranduil cut him off with a kiss that left Bard feeling quite certain that Thranduil approved of that plan. Bard smiled into the kiss, reaching up to tangle his hands in Thranduil’s hair, and when it ended, he kept Thranduil close to him. 

“And next year, I’ll have a new car. A new messy project. After spending some time down there, we’d go back up to the castle for a meal, and we’d be the only ones aware that my greasy handprints were on your pale hips,” Bard whispered. 

Thranduil groaned. He dropped his head down to Bard’s collarbone. “That idea… has merit.” 

After a brief laugh, Bard wrapped Thranduil up in his arms and moved towards the edge of the bed. It took some maneuvering, but eventually, Thranduil had detached himself and moved towards the lavatory. Bard took care of Cado, feeding him some of the fish and rice the house elves often brought for the otter’s meals, before joining Thranduil in the shower. 

“I want to tell my kids,” Bard said quietly, as he stepped into the warm, wet stall and caught Thranduil’s attention. “Just so they know… in case they ever walk in here and see us---”

Thranduil nodded. “Did you want to do it together?” he asked. 

“Together?”

“Yes. We could… have a meal. A picnic by the lake,” Thranduil suggested. He smiled at Bard’s expression of surprise, wide eyes and lifted eyebrows. “Honestly, Bard. I’m in. And unless you think your children will react poorly because you’re with a man, I think it would be good to---” 

A kiss stopped Thranduil from saying anything else. Bard kissed him, not caring about morning breath or the water spraying down upon them or their schedules, and pulled him close. Thranduil responded by wrapping his arms around Bard’s neck; he kissed Bard back, just as enthusiastically, and when the kiss ended, he opened his eyes and smiled again. 

“My kids will be fine with it,” Bard assured him. “Maybe surprised, but it won’t be bad.” 

“Mine already know my preferences,” Thranduil said. “Legolas likes you as a teacher and Tauriel will demand that she and Tilda be sisters and share a room.” 

Bard chuckled. He kissed Thranduil’s chin and cheek, two little pecks, and moved past him to grab the shampoo. He was not going to get distracted 

“So, today?” Bard asked as he wetted and washed his hair. “We’ll have lunch by the lake? Or should we make it supper, in case some of the other students linger---”

“Lunch. I’ll arrange it,” Thranduil decided. “Tell your children… one o’clock? Twelve-thirty?”

“Better make it one o’clock,” Bard said before he ducked under one of the steady streams of hot water. “The others leave for the train at noon, so there will be plenty of hugging and packing and running about. It will give them some time, too.” 

“All right,” Thranduil agreed. 

When Thranduil moved towards him, Bard smirked and pointed at the other showerhead. He’d originally thought it was ridiculous to have two faucets, because he could only stand under one of them at a time, but he was glad to have the additional space when Thranduil was giving him a hungry look and when they were running out of time. Thranduil pouted and washed his hair. He put on quite the show, stretching his soap-lathered body under the water, and Bard knew he was doing it intentionally, either to entice or punish but probably a little of both. 

They went through the rest of their morning ablutions, and after about an hour---because Thranduil tended to his hair without magic, and Bard found that rather priceless (since Thranduil always seemed to do more magic than he ever did)---they were on their way to the Great Hall for the last official breakfast of the year. Emotions still seemed to be running high, but they were more subdued than they were at the Leaving Feast. He knew the students had been celebrating (and commiserating) late into the night, and assumed sleepiness had muted frayed feelings and the knowledge that friends and couples would be separated for a few months. 

They ate a light meal and talked quietly about their summers when they weren’t talking with the rest of the staff. Bard learned that Legolas would be spending a lot of the summer with his mother, but that Tauriel would be with Thranduil at the Oropherion estate for most of the break. She’d have riding and flying lessons to keep her occupied, so he wasn’t worried about her being too bored. When Bard told him that they’d be going back to Ottawa for a month, so his children could visit some of their friends, Thranduil frowned but agreed that it would be good for them to reconnect with that part of their lives. 

“We don’t have a flat or house here, so we’re---”

“Stay with me,” Thranduil suggested. 

Bard smiled. It was an appealing offer---he didn’t like the idea of not sharing a bed with Thranduil through the summer months---and he wanted to accept it. But, rushing their relationship and becoming a combined family before everyone was ready wasn’t something he wanted to try, and when he told Thranduil that, he made sure to express how much he wanted to make it work between them. 

“Sweet talker,” Thranduil muttered. 

_“We’ll see each other. Apparition makes it easier,”_ Bard said, suddenly switching to Throseltongue. _“And we’ll be back at the castle before you know it. Maybe we can petition Minerva for shared quarters, if you’re amenable.”_

Thranduil smiled. “Good idea,” he murmured. 

_“And I can always send Cado to you if you’re feeling lonely,”_ Bard added. 

Thranduil whistled back, with only a little hesitation. _“I’ll keep the refrigerator stocked with fish,”_ he said in their secret language.

Bard grinned. He reached under the table and squeezed Thranduil’s thigh, just above his knee. Thranduil smiled and turned his focus to his fruit salad, though he managed a scowl when Elrond asked them why they whistled at each other. 

“It sounds like you’re having a conversation,” Elrond remarked, when neither of them said anything in reply. “I’d thought I’d heard of most languages, but whistling?”

“It’s code, so we can gossip about you without you knowing,” Thranduil muttered. 

Elrond laughed. “I’d believe that if you were whistling with Galadriel---”

“Speaking ill of your mother in law, really?” Thranduil commented. 

“She’d be the first to say it’s the best way to gain access to information others don’t particularly want her to have,” Elrond replied. 

Bard listened to their conversation as it was reduced to mostly-good-natured bickering. He picked at his breakfast, content to relax at the high table since there were no classes to rush off to conduct. Minerva asked him questions about his summer plans, and they talked about his bringing the children to stay with his parents for a month or so before they travelled back to Ottawa, before coming back for the next school year. 

“You will be coming back,” she said, fixing him with a stern expression. 

“Yes, of course,” he assured her. “As long as the school board wants me to come back.”

“They’ve already expressed a desire to keep you hired on,” Minerva replied. “But, we’ll discuss it in detail at tonight’s staff meeting.”

That was the last exchange about teaching and responsibilities for the remainder of the meal. Minerva gave a brief speech, wishing the graduates well and the other students a happy summer, and then she dismissed them all to get on with their packing. Most of the lingering staff filtered out at that point, too, and Thranduil was included in that group; he told Bard he was going to go tell his children about lunch before they left the Great Hall and before Thranduil went back to his to check on his students. 

After going to help the Gryffindors sort out their luggage, Bard helped the younger students cast levitating charms on their trunks to get them out of the portrait hole and down to the growing pile of luggage by the front doors. Students were scurrying about, with some of the staff on the outskirts to offer assistance as needed. It was a chaotic scene, students running about exchanging addresses on slips of paper and talking about getting together as soon as possible while the few couples that would be trying to keep their relationships intact over the summer holiday were sitting together quietly---or crying together not-so-quietly, in a couple of cases. Bard watched Thranduil try to keep Tauriel from rushing off, but eventually he gave up on that task and turned his attention to helping some of his first year students wrangle their familiars into their travel cages. 

When he saw his own children, Bard remembered to tell them that he’d like to take them to lunch down by the lake. Bain accepted it with a shrug and Tilda seemed gleeful at the idea of catching a glimpse of the Giant Squid; Sigrid looked at him, with a little curiosity and concern in her face, but she nodded and accepted the invitation, too. They’d all promised to meet by the doors at a quarter to one, and then Bard lost them to the whirlwind of activity that was getting the students to the train. 

He didn’t see them again until it was time to go down for lunch. Tilda asked why he wasn’t carrying a basket, but Bard put the question off by asking her what she got up to after the Leaving Feast. She rambled on about a game of Exploding Snap and taking pictures with her friends, unaware of Bard’s discomfort. He tried not to be, but despite his attempts to calm his thoughts, he was nervous. He knew his children weren’t going to have a problem with him dating a man, but he was unsure of what they’d think about him in a serious relationship with anyone who wasn’t their mother. 

Thranduil, Legolas, and Tauriel were already waiting by the lake. A beautiful spread on a couple of blankets had been set-up; Thranduil was leaning against a tree, a book in his hands, and Legolas was playing a game with Tilda. Bard smiled at them, lingering longest on Thranduil; Thranduil smiled back at him as he set down his book. 

“Da?” Bain asked, once they were all seated on the blankets and picking at the food. “What’s going on?”

“Well, I wanted… I mean, we wanted, Thranduil and I, to tell you all something.” 

Grinning, Sigrid held out her hands. “Pay up, boys,” she declared. “You each owe me a galleon.” 

“Wait, wait,” Legolas protested. “They didn’t actually announce anything yet!” 

Bard turned to Thranduil, who smiled and shrugged. Apparently, they weren’t as discrete as Bard thought they’d been---or their children were far more perceptive than he’d assumed they were. He chuckled, shaking his head, and when his laughter faded he told them what they’d intended to tell their children. When the truth had been shared---that he and Thranduil were in a relationship, and would continue to be with their blessing---Legolas and Bain each put a golden coin in Sigrid’s hands. Thranduil praised her for being clever enough to figure it out and Bard grinned as Tauriel and Tilda came to the conclusion that they were almost sisters. 

They would be, Bard knew, if everything went the way he wanted, with Thranduil. 

Thranduil whistled near his ear. _“You look very happy.”_

_“I am very happy,”_ he whistled back. 

The children who understood him reacted almost immediately. Sigrid and Tilda started cooing as if it was wonderful that Bard and Thranduil were being romantic, and to Thranduil's and Bard's collective surprise, Legolas and Bain were grimacing as if it was gross to watch their fathers being romantic. Once Tilda translated for Tauriel, who knew the the whistling was a sort of language, the other young girl was joining in on the teasing noise-making. 

Bard grinned. He leaned back against the tree and took Thranduil’s hand in his. He watched their children share a meal and he enjoyed the moment. It was a wonderful end to the year, though he had hope that there would be more wonderful moments in his and his family’s future.


	10. Epilogue

It was strange, driving to Hogwarts. Bard was used to apparating or taking a port-key, but he’d finished his latest project car and he could not part with it. Thranduil had actually helped him with it---even though he’d complained quite a lot about the grease under his fingernails and the rust stains on the Muggle clothes Bard had insisted he wear---and they’d had a great time celebrating its completion. Good memories were tied into this car, into every inch of it, and he’d hated the idea of selling it to someone who wouldn’t know or appreciate all that had gone into its restoration. 

And, to be honest, the idea of going for a long drive with Thranduil at his side was an appealing one. 

Thranduil, however, had balked at the idea of driving the car to the school. At first he’d balked because the routes to Hogwarts weren’t clearly marked. And then he’d suggested they add a flying charm to the car---because, obviously, the Headmaster of a magical school could not arrive in such a non-magical fashion. When Bard had an extendible charm placed within the boot of the car, so they could travel with all of their luggage and without shrinking any of it, Bard was hopeful that would be the end of it. 

It hadn’t been. 

Thranduil complained that his hair would get tangled and wind-swept. Bard told his (fussy, ridiculous) husband to braid it back or buy a scarf. 

When Thranduil said it would take too long, he’d taken one look at Bard’s face, and capitulated. Bard pulled Thranduil close and kissed him in thanks. Thranduil nodded, kissed him again, and told him he was going out to buy a scarf. 

Thranduil lost the scarf to the wind two hours into the trip. Trying not to grin, Bard handed over an extra elastic band to help him tame his hair. 

They’d been driving for hours. Thranduil was currently leaning against Bard, his head resting on Bard’s shoulder; Bard kept his hand on the gear shift and Thranduil kept his hand over Bard’s so they were in contact as much as they could be while driving safely. 

“I heard from Legolas last night,” Thranduil murmured. 

“You didn’t tell me,” Bard said. He kissed Thranduil’s forehead. “How is he?”

“Fine. Busy. Determined to drive me crazy.” 

Bard chuckled. “Sounds about right.” 

“Are we there yet?” Thranduil asked. 

“We’re about an hour from Hogsmeade,” Bard said. “The road’ll take us around the village, we’ll come up to Hogwarts by the lane the carriages use.” 

“Good,” Thranduil said. He sighed and snuggled a bit more into Bard’s side. “I miss the girls. They’ll get to the train on time, you think?” 

Thranduil loved all of their children, but he had a soft spot for the youngest of their children. Tilda and Tauriel had been as thick as thieves from the beginning and becoming step-sisters had only cemented their bond. Tilda had grown to love Thranduil, quite quickly, and Thranduil had all but melted in her presence. When Tauriel realised that the hair-braiding, story-telling man was actually her guardian and he wasn’t changing in any way except to become warmer and more affectionate, it was like she’d blossomed. They’d become a happy family, all together, but the girls lived with them the longest. Thranduil was attached. It was their last year at Hogwarts and Bard suspected that Thranduil was going to become incredibly emotional when they graduated and struck off on their own. 

Bard kissed Thranduil’s head again. “Aye,” he murmured, “they’ll make it. Arwen won’t let them be late.” 

They’d both agreed the girls could stay with Arwen and her mother for the two weeks before school started. Elrond had assured them he’d impressed upon his daughter the importance of Tauriel and Tilda making it to King’s Cross Station in plenty of time. Thranduil worried, but Bard knew it was his way of processing change and preparing for any possibility. After a few years together, he was used to most of Thranduil’s ways. 

“But, just in case,” Bard added, “I’ll send a thrush to remind them.” 

“A patronus would be faster,” Thranduil said. 

“Then I’ll send my patronus. The day before they’re scheduled to leave.” 

Yawning, Thranduil nodded. “Fine. You know… this isn’t so bad,” he said. 

Bard smiled. He grinned when Thranduil fell asleep on him, mumbling under his breath at odd intervals. Thranduil sleeping didn’t happen often through the summer, as he took on research projects that captivated him and held his attention long after Bard retired each night, and he knew that any time Thranduil was able to get some rest it was a good thing. He listened to the crooning singer on the radio---charmed to pick up the wizarding wireless stations---and continued to drive to the castle. 

Sam greeted them from the gardens, as they drove up and around the large building to park the car in the garage that had replaced the carriage house Bard used the first year he’d taught Potions. He approached them, but waited until Bard had roused Thranduil before opening the boot; he was a good groundskeeper, discrete and friendly, and he knew Thranduil well enough to know not to startle him awake. 

“Welcome back, Headmaster,” Sam said, after Thranduil slipped out of the car and stretched. “Good summer?”

“Yes, thank you, Mister Gamgee. How are you?”

“Splendid,” Sam replied, grinning. “Give me a minute and I’ll help you get your things to your quarters.” 

“Thanks, Sam,” Bard said in response. 

A twittering, fluttering mass descended upon them as they stepped out of the garage. Some of the school’s thrushes all made a mad dash for Thranduil’s shoulders and arms, and a few stragglers decided that Bard’s shoulders would do. Bard chuckled as Thranduil whistled to all of them, his fluency in Throseltongue quite secure after years of practice; he spared some of his attention to greet the little birds that landed on him instead of on Thranduil and they all seemed to have things to tell him about the castle in the summer. 

“Big fans of yours?” Sam asked. 

Bard laughed. “Something like that.” 

“Did Gelia arrive?” Thranduil asked. 

Sam nodded. “Last night, sir. She’s in the Owlery, last I checked.” 

Thranduil dismissed the thrushes, telling them he’d come out and visit early tomorrow morning. Knowing Thranduil the way he did, Bard suspected they’d have a lot of feathered visitors at their windows in the morning. Without sharing his opinion, he grinned to himself and worked at tugging their trunks and suitcases out of the car. 

By the time they were settled in their suite of rooms---the Head of the School’s rooms, much more luxurious than anything either of them had used before Minerva retired---with their belongings unpacked into wardrobes and drawers and upon shelves, Bard was contemplating a long nap followed by a long shower. His muscles ached from exertion after such a long drive; he wanted to unwind before their days became full of staff meetings and preparations for the students’ return. Thranduil left him to it, saying he needed to check on things in his office, and that he’d be in touch before supper. 

Bard wasn’t surprised; he knew how it would be once Thranduil set foot in the castle again. It had always been that way, since Thranduil had accepted the promotion, and Bard’s pride in Thranduil’s success was greater than any hurt feelings at being abandoned. He called to a house elf for a snack, ate while reading a book, and then decided to reacquaint himself with the bed they shared most of the year. 

Before he could get comfortable, a thrush tapped at the bedroom window. 

_“Hello, friend,”_ he whistled. _“Thranduil’s not here, so---”_

 _“The Headmaster would like it if you’d meet him in the bathing room with the funny taps in one hour,”_ the bird sang out. _“He said it’s important.”_

Bard laughed. That particular bathing room, like the Prefects’ bath but for the staff, was an important place for them. Their first and third weddings anniversaries were spent there---but most importantly, it was where Thranduil told him ‘I love you’ for the first time. 

_“Thank you,”_ he sang to the bird, before it flew away. 

Postponing his shower wouldn’t be a hardship, he decided, grinning to himself. His memory supplied images of all the times they’d spent in that bath---from that first night where they'd explored each other's bodies under thick, foamy bubbles before sharing whispered words that were momentous to their hearts, to the most recent when they'd floating together, sharing champagne and holding hands---and his stomach tightened in anticipation. What Thranduil had planned, he wasn't sure, but he knew it would be another event worth cherishing.

And if it would set the tone of their year at Hogwarts, which was something Bard would endeavor to make happen, then it would be worth even more.

The End!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And happy holidays! :) <3


End file.
